


Sticks and Strings and Christmas Things

by PhoukasPenmanship



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 12 Days of Winterhawk, A little angst, Christmas Fluff, Family of Choice, M/M, Slow Burn, Swearing, deaf!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoukasPenmanship/pseuds/PhoukasPenmanship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 connecting vignettes for the "12 Days of Winterhawk" prompt challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: The Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: In which Clint picks a tree and wastes ammunition.

The ground was covered in a plush layer of powdery snow, the smell of pine was thick in the air, and it would be feeling a lot like Christmas, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was stuck out in the middle-of-nowhere, this-was-a-terrible-idea-Clint, where-the-hell-even-are-we Canada, playing at being a babysitter to Steve Rogers.

 “ _It will be a quick little mission_ ” they had said.  
“ _In and out; minimal fuss and quick extraction_ ” he had been told.  
“ _Virtually no danger; probably just a ghost facility. Rogers will do all the work; we just need someone to watch his back_ ” had been the mission statement.  
“ _Codename Falcon currently unavailable; you are the best available operative_ ” was the explanation for the job offer (frankly, that was a little insulting, but whatever).  
“ _Consider it a mini Christmas vacation, Hawkeye_ ” was how they sold it. 

No fucking wonder Sam had laughed his ass off when Clint told him that he had taken the assignment.  Sam had been traipsing around being Steve’s wingman for months now; Sam knew what was up.  Sam knew what Clint was getting into. Sam was a damned asshole for not warning him.

The mission plan had seemed so simple, all laid out there on the brief.   

 **Step 1:** Fly to “I promise, it isn’t as cold as you think it will be” Canada.  
**Step 2:** Scout the secret-not-so-secret, suspected Hydra facility that Steve believed had information regarding the Winter Soldier project.  
**Step 3:** Provide cover while the good Captain did what he does best. Maybe shoot a few bad guys. Maybe discover some intel. No matter what though, be back home before it's time to plug in the Christmas lights.  
**Step 4** : Profit. Well, not profit, exactly - more like go home, sit in his underwear, and drink eggnog -  but that is basically the same thing.

What a crock of shit.  As far as Clint was concerned, the briefing should have gone like this:

 **Step 1:** Fly to the endothermic hellscape currently masquerading as the Canadian wilderness.  
**Step 2:** Scout the obviously not-so-secret, completely deserted, utterly ransacked, definitely was, at some point in time,  Hydra base.  
**Step 3:** Look away uncomfortably while the national symbol of freedom reinvents usages for the words “God” and “damn” and “it” and puts his fist through an empty filing cabinet.  
**Step 4:** Wait patiently like an underpaid uber drive while said national symbol does another perimeter check for anything they might have missed the first time around.  Wait for what is now going into six hours.

This is not profit. Definitely. Not. Profit. Not even close.

In hour one Clint did his own survey of the area, leaving Steve to his own devices. He found exactly nothing, just like the first time around. Whoever (or whatever given the extent of some of the damage) had raided the base before them had done a thorough job.  All the computers were smashed. All the documents were reduced to tiny little smoldering piles of ash.  All the bodies, if there ever had been any,  were gone and there was not a single scrap of intel to be found.  Hydra and whomever (or whatever) had come looking for them had split.  

In hour two Clint had run through the flight prep for the quinjet.  He was going to think of this as his “wishful thinking” hour.  Surely Steve would come to the same realization that Clint had - there was nothing left to be done here - and they could be on their way. Conceivably, Clint could be back in Brooklyn in time to watch whatever was the Hallmark holiday special of the evening wrapped in the comfort of his own battered couch.   

In hour three he tracked down Steve.  The flight prep had only taken 20 minutes, daydreaming about eggnog for another 10, and then thirty of nothing at all. In the official paperwork, Clint planned on detailing how he was simply checking in with his partner - the higher ups didn’t need to know that in all actuality, he had just been bored.

In hour four he went back to the jet to let the man brood in peace.  Watching Steve comb the deserted rooms and haunt the hallways was worse than staring at the walls of the plane; Steve looked so sad, which made Clint sad,  and the last thing in the world that Clint needed was another reason to mope.

In hour five he debated with himself over if taking a nap would be against his mission role.

And now, here he was, deep in hour six, standing outside shooting arrows into the base of a large pine tree because he had literally nothing better to do (the con position of the napping issue had, unfortunately, won out).  

The quiver over his back had already been emptied and he was steadily working his way through the stock on his hip trying to form a stylized outline of a Christmas tree in the trunk in lieu of shooting at any particular target.  The first half of the pattern had been easy, but matching it shot for shot down the other side was taking substantially more concentration. Exactly what he had been hoping for. The grin on his face ticked up broader and broader with each twang of the string and thunk of the point. Almost done.  

Without looking away, he cycled the quiver, spinning the internal cylinders until the small reserve of arrows with tracking beacons affixed to their crestings rolled to the font.  Grabbing one at random he flicked the activation node, nocked the arrow, and let it fly.    

Just as all the others, it struck true, vibrating slightly where it was sunk deep into the wood at the apex of his pattern.  With a tiny little beep, the tracker activated and the small led light designed to indicate that the signal was transmitting began to twinkle softly - a tiny little star for the top of his tiny little tree.

He gave a whoop and a fist pump, brandishing the bow joyously before moving closer to the tree to better inspect his work.  He knew he was no doubt grinning like a madman, standing there with hands on his hips feeling entirely too proud of himself, but now in the wake of his display of brilliance, it was not the time to start caring about that sort of thing.  With any luck, Steve would be back shortly so there would be someone else to share in the moment.  

The thought of Steve brought Clint back to reality.  Well, shit. He was, technically, supposed to be keeping an eye on the Captain and it had been a while since he had checked in.  

Pivoting to head back towards the jet, Clint noticed several things in rapid succession.  First, it had grown drastically darker than he had realized, the sun quickly setting behind the sea of mountains and pine - he had been at it longer than he thought. Second, despite the fact that the air was no colder than it had been and still filled only with the sound of birdsong,  something was causing the skin down his spine to prickle with unease - never a good sign. Finally, completing the turn, he hit the one that stopped him still in place; he wasn’t alone any longer and his new companion definitely wasn’t Steve.

The man was about 20 yards away, standing directly in Clint’s path back to the plane.  He was probably about Clint’s height, maybe a little taller, maybe a little broader, but anything else was hard to determine beneath the heavy layers of winter clothing he was sporting and the balaclava shrouding his features.  

He stood like a soldier - stock still and solid as a rock. The snow around the man’s heavy boots was pristine, completely free of any tracks to indicate the direction from which he had come, so either he was a flier or had been there a long damn time watching Clint’s antics.  The first option was unlikely - but possible given the sorts of crazy Clint was starting to grow accustomed to - but was honestly the better of the two options.  If it was the latter,  that would mean that an unknown threat had been at Clint’s back for an undetermined amount of time and Clint hadn’t been the least bit aware.  Not a good way to keep breathing in this profession.  

However, the man had gotten there really didn’t matter at this point.  The more pressing issue was the veritable arsenal strapped across the soldier’s form. A large rifle, assembled and scoped,  was slung ominously across his back; there were two pistols of differing sizes holstered against the guy’s massive right thigh and another of an even larger caliber on his left.  Clint could count at least four knife sheaths in the mix, so if he applied the “Romanoff Rule” to that number it would mean that there were, at least, sixteen more squirreled away out of sight somewhere on his person.

All Clint had was his bow and the dozen or so arrows left in the quiver.  Not the worst odds he had ever run up against, but not really how he wanted to spend his evening either. Alright. He could work with this. What he needed was a -

“You’re not Hydra.”

\- plan. The voice surprised him.  He hadn’t really be expecting the man in black to make pleasantries. Fair enough. Who needs a plan when you can talk it out. Talk was a much better alternative to violence.

“Nope. And you’re not Canadian.”

Brilliant, Barton. A plus work right there. Even from this distance, Clint could spot the man’s brows furrow in confusion beneath the mask, gaze cutting away sharply to the left as if he were processing that statement.  

“No?”

That sounded a bit more like a question than a statement, but it was something to build on.

“And I take it that you are also not Hydra?”

There again was the puzzled expression and the darting eyes, like the man was having to think about the answer to what should be a fairly straightforward line of questions; the silence wasn’t a confirmation, necessarily, but it wasn’t exactly a denial either.

Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Clint raised both hands - the empty one palm out and the one clutching the bow tipped in as least threatening of a way as possible.  Without breaking eye contact, he turned just slightly and placed the bow on the ground.  It was a gamble, but he still had the arrows at his side and he was pretty sure a few of those were the kind that could cause explosions if he was so inclined to use them.

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, happen to be the kind soul who wiped out that Hydra facility for us, would you?”

Rather than reply, the man’s posture eased.  Some of the tension vanished from the line of his shoulders and his weight distributed more evenly over the balls of his feet.  The change was minor, but telling. Up until this moment the soldier had been a cocked weapon and Clint a potential threat - now, for whatever reason he just… wasn’t.  

As the man reached up to pull the mask from his face, Clint let out a low whistle through his teeth.  Well, he didn’t need to see the man’s feature any longer to know who it was he was talking to - the glint of the setting sun off of the uncovered metallic fingertips was calling card enough.

James “Bucky” Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the whole reason that Steve Rogers was systematically traversing the globe laying waste to every single Hydra facility he could march his star-spangled boots through was standing not twenty yards from Clint, trying (in vain) to shove his overly long, sweaty hair from his eyes and frowning at Clint like he had personally done him some disservice.

Barnes looked exhausted. His face was drawn, cheekbones standing out sharply and casting deep shadows over the too pale skin.  His eyes were darker still, smudge beneath with bruises beyond the grease paint and eye black.  His lips were chapped, the crevices traced with lines of dried blood where they had been worried against sharp white teeth.  Clint had seen the images from the file that Natasha had liberated. They had been bad.  This version of the man looked worse.

“You’re here with Steve. I’m used to seeing the other guy. The one with the..” Barnes gesture out to his side with his right hand in a vaguely flapping, rolling motion, “...wings.”

“Ahh. Yup. That would be Sam, and yes, he is normally Steve’s hydra-hunting-husband, but, this time, I drew the short straw. So, here we are.”

Barnes nodded once, sharp and decisive - like anything that just came out of Clint’s mouth made sense - and then looked away.  Clint tried, he really did, to let the silence stretch, to just be patient and see what was going to happen next.

“He is here looking for you, you know.” Well, that wasn’t what Clint had been intending to say, not by a long shot, and definitely not spoken so softly.  Barnes’s eyes pinched shut, the words causing more damage than Clint’s bow ever could.  “I take it you are the one that has been beating him to the hideouts, then.  He thinks that they are just scuttling all of the information on the Winter Soldier Project.  He thinks you are in the wind.”

Barnes didn’t give any indication that he was listening, but he wasn’t leaving either, which counted for something.  Bending down, Clint snatched back up his bow.  Using the motion and noise of breaking it down and tethering it to the quiver to announce his intentions, he moved back towards the jet stopping just inside of arm’s reach- making the deliberate choice to stand to the man’s left.

“Knowing his best friend is alive would make for a hell of a fine Christmas gift.” Still no reaction. “You would be like Santa Claus, bring all the little boys the things they were too afraid to actually ask Santa for.”

That earned him a scoff, but no eye contact. “I’m no one’s idea of a gift.” The final word had a growling, bitten off emphasis that Clint took to mean that it carried some pretty negative connotations.  

“Pfft.” Clint was actually pretty proud of how loud he managed to make the noise of dissent, given the cold and how he was beginning to realize he could no longer feel his face or his fingers. “Nah, man. Steve would love it. Hell, I would love it, and not just because it would mean I wouldn’t get drug out on another one of these wild goose chases again, chasing your ghost ass.”

That earned him a look. “You don’t know me.”

“Nope.” Clint popped the word, drawing it out into two syllables, “But I know _of_ you.  Gotta say, pretty impressive resume.  The way I see it, if you are around that means that there is another long range in Roger’s arsenal, and that means I don’t have to spend all of my spare time shoved up in a tree playing partridge, pretending to find whatever it is they are doing interesting.”

“I can’t be trusted.” Barnes’s voice was small, carrying a bit of a whine, and Clint’s heart broke just a little.

“Pfft.” He tried for the sound again.  “Nah. Sure you can. You didn’t kill him, now did you? Didn’t kill Tasha. Hell, didn’t kill me just now. That counts for something. Steve trusted you before. He’ll trust you now. You’ve just got to-”

“Don’t. Know. Me” The words were barked out, sharp, dripping with venom and laced with self-hatred. Both of Barnes’s hands clenched into fists and Clint can hear the soft whirring of machinery as the arm recalibrates around the sudden motion. A smarter man might move away; Clint just shuffled a little bit closer. “I’m not who I was.”

“No. You’re right. He doesn’t know who you are, _now_.” Clint put as much emphasis on the word as he dared. “But I think he might like to learn. Maybe even-”

“ **You**. don’t. know me.”

Well. That is unexpected.  Maybe this wasn’t as much about Steve as he thought.  “No. No, I don’t. But, hell, did it occur to you that maybe I would like to.  Hard to say for certain.   It’s not every day a man gets to meet the world’s second best marksman. What I do know, is that we could use you.  I’m sick of going on every mission just because they need a pair of eyes.  Besides, Steve is a handful; someone needs to look out for him.  Sam can’t do it all the time, and I’m pretty certain that I don’t have the required temperament.”

Clint had no real idea what caused him to make the job offer - because that is exactly what it was - but somehow it didn’t surprise him in the least.  He wanted to say it felt natural, given his propensity for picking up strays, but this ran deeper than that. Standing next to the Winter Soldier just felt… _right_.  

Barnes was silent for a long moment, so long that Clint was pretty sure the conversation was over and that he might as well just leave.   Or that he was going to get shot. Could go either way.

“Second best marksman, my ass. None of my briefings mentioned you being a damned comedian.”

Clint couldn’t help it, he choked out a laugh. “Well, the stories never said that you had jokes either, so that road goes both ways, pal. Be that as it may, I think you are missing the important point here. I might not be funny, which I am, thank you very much, but you said it yourself, you were briefed about me, so that right there has to count for something!”

In a move that was either incredibly brave or monumentally stupid, Clint leaned over just enough to bump his elbow against Bucky’s.  Even through the layers of jacket and for as brief as the contact was, Clint could feel the solid, unyielding force of a weapon that was the arm.

Rather than be gutted for the action - which, Clint had been giving that at least a 65% probability of being the outcome - he was rewarded with a tic around the corners of Bucky’s eyes and a subtle shifting of his eyeline that might very well be considered an eye roll. Clint Barton, Master Marksman, the Amazing Hawkeye himself, had just successfully made the Winter Soldier rolls his eyes and lived to tell the tale.  

Grinning like a moron, Clint got lost in the moment of mirth.  It suddenly became incredibly important that he remember this exact moment in its entirety.  The expression had looked so at home on Bucky’s features - more so than the glassy-eyed stare into middle distance ever had - that Clint now considered it  his primary responsibility to put that look back there as often as possible.   

“I’ll think about it. I… I have more work to do first.”  

The soft-spoken confession brought Clint back into the here and now, the moment of levity temporarily lost. Clint knew all about that - the need for the work.  The weight of actions carried out by hands that were somehow both your own and still not.  How the memories of those deeds pressed on the soul.  How the frigid drive to even out the balance kept your skin tight and your blood running cold.  Clint had only lost a handful of days and had almost drowned beneath the weight. Barnes had over seventy years.

“Alright. I won’t press, but seriously man, give it some thought. The work thing and the Christmas thing.  I can just imagine it now.  There it is. Christmas morning.  Little Stevie is all bright eyed, wrapped up in his Avenger’s pajamas - complete with little feetsies - running down the hallway of the Stark tower to see what Santa left him beneath the tree. There he goes, sliding around the corner into the commons area, barely able to contain the excitement, and golly gee, what is that beneath the tree but his long lost best buddy, Bucky Barnes. Angels will sing. Eagles with scream out from their roosts. Steves will cry.  Balance will be restored to the force.  It would be a magical moment.”

He knew he was laying it on a bit thick, but couldn’t help it. Clint was on a role and it was taking every last bit of self-control he had to not glance sideways to watch for Barnes’s reaction.  Clint desperately wanted to see that face free from the shadows haunting it and he had no clue where that desire was coming from.  Didn’t want to think about it, actually.  The only thing keeping him from looking was how powerful the urge was.  To follow that path was trouble, trouble with a capital “T”, way too many “r”s, and a whole string of “u”s.  Despite the common belief held by his friends, Clint did, occasionally, possess a bit of common sense. Occasionally.    

There was a chuff of air, that maybe might have been the start of a laugh. Clint had absolutely no business feeling as proud to have caused it as he did.

“I don’t know about all of that.” There was a pause, “What about you?”

“What about me, what?”

“What do you want to find under your tree Christmas morning, Hawkeye?”

Clint snorted - well, that confirmed that Barnes knew who he was talking to and that the earlier jab might not have been so flippant after all.  It was a sobering thought that he might have ever ranked high enough to find his way into the Winter Soldier’s scope.

“Nah. Nothing for me this year. I don’t even have a tree.”

Barnes “tsked” softly, shaking his head and causing chunks of hair to fall back over his eyes.  “Maybe you should. You obviously have a knack for decorating.”

That prompted another chuckle from Clint as he reached up to rub at the back of his neck, ruefully.

“Yeah, well, not a lot of gift giving going around this season for former assassins.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Clint immediately regretted them, would have given anything in the world to have them back. Way to go, genius, openly insult the other man in the clearing and all in the spirit of Christmas.

“Maybe you have a point, or maybe you are just expecting gifts from the wrong type of people.”  Well, that wasn’t what Clint had been expecting.  “After all,  I have it on good authority that Steve believed in Santa Claus until he was thirteen because someone kept sneaking present in to put under his tree, and it sure as hell wasn’t a fat man dressed in red. ”

No sooner has he finished the thought, Barnes moved past Clint heading towards the tree line.  Clint wasn’t sure what had him more floored - the casual brush of shoulder as Barnes had moved past or the length of the sentence.  Too lost in the unexpected touch, it took a full five seconds for the gist of what was said to sink in.  By that point, Bucky was practically to the treeline.

Clint completely missed him pause and toss a smirk back over his shoulder - the first time that particular face has worn that particular expression in over seventy years.  Clint missed it as he was doubled over, too busy gasping for air, clutching at his sides,  and laughing hard enough to startle a small group of birds into flight.  By the time Clint got himself back together, standing up to wipe at watering eyes,  the clearing was empty again - Barnes was long gone.

Clint wasn’t sure exactly how much longer he stood there, grinning out into the trees.  Long enough for the sky to further darken, pitching the world into an incandescent twilight with the last light of the day shimmering off of the snow.

The moment that Steve shuffled back into his eye line, looking every bit as haggard and lost as Bucky, Clint sprang into action.  Apparently, he needed a Christmas tree.  

Pivoting on the spot he dashed back into the plane, completely ignoring Steve’s confused expression.  Surely there has to be something useful, and if not... well… Steve could bash it down it with his shield or rip it out with his bare hands for all Clint cared. This was happening.

It didn’t take long before he struck success.  There was tiny little hatchet at the bottom of one of the emergency drop kits.  It was small, and in no way, shape, or form designed for this, but it would have to do.

“Come on. I need your help.” Clint jogged back past the still befuddled Steve, to begin hacking at the base of his chosen tree, just beneath the little decoration.  The tiny little arrow tree with its tiny little arrow star was coming home with him, one way or another.  

“What exactly is it that I am helping you with?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m taking this home.”

“And why exactly are are you doing that?”

“Well, Cap, what can I say. I decided I wanted a tree.”

“Tony has trees all over the tower…”

“Those. Are. Tony’s. Trees. This. One. Is. Mine.”

Each word was punctuated with another swing of the little ax. Steve didn’t say anything else after that, just elbowed Clint out of the way and took the hatchet from his hands.  It was probably for the better.  With his luck, Clint would have managed to lose a limb and then Steve would have had to pilot home. Steve did not have a good track record for flying planes. Never one to question a good thing, Clint willingly relinquished the tool. 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Clint scanned the tree line one final time, hoping to catch a deeper shadow than the rest in the gathering dark or maybe even a flash of silver.  Despite the lack of indication, he was pretty sure Barnes was still out there, somewhere. Probably watching.   Clint couldn’t help himself; he smiled, just a little, at the thought.

Maybe there would be profit from this after all.  

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”


	2. Day Two: The Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two: In which Clint builds a snowman and fate finds it fit to terminates the poor thing with extreme prejudice.

It hadn’t taken Steve any time at all to cleave his way through the little evergreen. Honestly,it had taken Clint longer to make sure it was wrapped in the appropriated cargo netting,  tethered upright and properly secured in the hold of the plane than it had taken for Steve to cut the damn thing down.

The flight back was equally as unproblematic. Smooth skies and no awkward questions about why Clint couldn’t seem to stop grinning.  He felt a little bad about that, actually.  Steve still looked so sad, but it wasn’t quite enough to dampen his mood.

The jet touched down at exactly 10:58 pm Eastern Standard Time.

Clint had it all planned out - he had already messaged Katie and convinced (read: bribed) her to bring a car. All they had to do as strap the tree to the top, reclaim his dog, and head towards home sweet home.  He could still get his new acquisition unloaded and be passed out before too much of the following day was gone.

That was the plan. Things never go according to it.

No sooner had he stepped off the plane, Clint was carted into a mission debrief and follow-up prep. That took four hours.  

The fact that they hadn’t found anything wasn’t enough.  Why they hadn’t found anything had to be analyzed and debated over, and Clint was damn sure glad he knew how to keep his mouth shut.  He couldn’t even imagine the fallout if he had chimed in with an “Ohh, yeah, it was empty because the Winter Soldier beat us to it. He and I had a nice little chat in the woods. Fine fellow, that chap.” Pfft. Yeah. Mouth. Shut.  

Next, he was hauled into another to be lectured about letting Captain America do his own thing - like that was completely unprecedented. That hour devolved into another about the misuse of team supplies and then another still for the theft of nationally protected flora.

Clint’s punishment was to fully inventory the plane, detail every single moment of the mission, and account for each usage of gear.  That meant writing out a full SitRep and craft a report for every gear pack he had gone through. That meant explaining away the missing cargo netting and the wear on the hatchet. That meant filling out a different form for every arrow.  That meant a requisition for the data sent by the tracker he had activated just because it was sparkly.  That meant coming up with a plausible series of events to fill in for the hour he spent talking to Barnes - given the overarching theme of the earlier debriefs, putting down “I took a nap” was not going to be an option.

Clint would have bet money that Sam didn’t have to put up with this shit.

By the time it was all said and done, Clint had lost sixteen hours. _Sixteen_ hours that he was never going to get back, most of which were all for the want of a tree.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, by the time he was cleared to leave, he couldn’t get Kate back on the phone. None of the cabbies would let him strap his cargo to the roof, so he ended up having to fork over a hefty bribe to a bus driver. One hour in public transport hauling a ten-foot white pine with all of his gear while running on exactly zero sleep was not the way Clint had planned for this day to go.

He had just hauled the tree the three blocks from the bus stop, up the eight flights of stairs to his loft, and slammed the door when the wall phone began to ring.  Nope. Ohh no. No way in hell.  It was 4:30 in the afternoon. He had been up for 33 hours straight. He was officially off the clock.  

He dumped his gear in a heap by the front door and carefully carried the tree over to lean against the wall in the corner by the window. It would do, for now. There would be time to set everything up later. Right now? Nap.

After the twelfth ring, the line went dead.  Clint had exactly ten seconds of quiet before it started right back up.  Nope. Still no way.

Reaching up, he carefully removed both of the tiny aides from his ears, pitching the world into silence.  He might resent not always having the full function of his senses, but moments exactly like this one made it tolerable.  Clint jogged up the stairs, retrieved the garish metallic purple case - thanks Tony - from his nightstand and placed the small earbuds carefully inside.  He might be cavalier with a lot of his crap, but not these.

Sitting down heavily on the edge of the unmade bed, Clint scrubbed his hands across his face. Where to even begin? Shower. Sleep. Food.  They were all necessities and his brain wasn’t doing much good in helping his sort out the priority.

Still working up the motivation to something, Clint noticed a thump shaking across the floorboards against his feet.  It was as staccato three beat rhythm - thump thump thump; Pause; thump thump thump; Pause; thump thump thump.

With a whine, Clint snatched back up the little case, retrieved his ears and slid them back on.  It was just what he was afraid of.  The thumps were someone pounding against his door and the pauses were someone screaming his name.

He thought about just ignoring it. Really, seriously did, but his conscience got the better of him.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold on.”

Clint trudged back down the stairs to throw open the door.  

“Hey, Clint!”

“Deke.”

“You just get back?”

“Yup.”

“Cool. Yeah! Good to see yah, man!”

“Yup.”

Silence.

“Was there something you needed?”

“Ahh, yeah! Simone and the gang sent me down to get you.  We are having a little Christmas party up on the roof.  Didn’t think you would be home for it, but we saw you walking up the street.  Aimee tried to give you a call, but she said you didn’t answer.”

“Deke. I literally just walked in the door. It’s been a really long day. I haven’t slept. I don’t think -”

“Nah, come on Hawkguy! You don’t have to stay for long, but you gotta at least put in an appearance. Please man, for the kids...”

“Ugh. Fine. Let me change and grab my other coat and I’ll be right there.”

“Awesome! Thanks man! I’ll have them save you a beer.”

 

* * *

 

The other apartment building denizens had decorated the rooftop for Christmas, with twinkling lights, festive garland, propane space heaters (that were probably a fire hazard), and a large cast iron fire pit (that definitely was).  It was lovely, and welcoming, and all Clint could think about was the barren tree dumped in his living room and brainwashed snipers all alone in the Canadian wilderness.

He did his best to be social, but his heart really wasn’t in the moment.  No one seemed to judge him for it - just carried on with the festivities in his orbit, including Clint when the moment called for it, but mostly just letting him do his own thing.  They were good people. Clint didn’t often give them enough credit for that.

 

* * *

 

Bundling down a little deeper into his coat and leaning towards one of the heaters, Clint nursed his third (or was it the fourth... fifth?) beer.  He should go down and get some rest, the party was long over.  If he didn’t leave soon he would probably end of passing out right there in the old deck chair and getting frostbit - would be hard to do his job sans fingertips -  but something was holding him to the spot.

The snow falling in the city was lovely.  The glimmer from the streetlamps off of the drifts gilded Brooklyn in pale gold, and for a moment, it was easy to forget all the filth and crime and everything else that plagued the city.  It almost felt like a place to call home.

Standing up, Clint walked over to the roof’s parapet.  Still cradling the beer in one hand, he folded his arms against the ledge and pillowed his chin against them, pressing his cheek to the chilled bottle.  There was hardly any traffic moving along the street, and for once the borough was almost silent.  The only noise making it to the rooftop was the residual thrum from the nearby thoroughfare and the laughter of a pair of boys - maybe brothers, possibly friends - playing in the snow just across the street under an older man’s watchful eyes. They were lobbing snowballs, slipping and sliding wildly across the frozen asphalt, and playing some game of which only they knew the rules.  

A few minutes later, their guardian joined in, growling like a monster and chasing the pair about.  It went on like this a bit longer, until the big man was laid low by a brilliant tactical maneuver carried out with strike team precision.  Even Clint was impressed.

The man let himself be tugged back to his feet and brushed off by two tiny pairs of hands before announcing that it was time to head home.  

“Aww, but we wanted to build a snowman!”  The words just barely made it over the breeze.  Whatever the rejoinder, it was lost to the wind and the trio moved their way up the alley and into one of the apartment buildings.  Clint watched them all the way until they were completely out of sight and then the spot where they disappeared long after.

More minutes passed, each bleeding into the prior before Clint decided that maybe he should head in, too. Reaching up to adjust his knit cap, he found moisture streaking his cheeks. He scrubbed the tracks away, attributing them to the lingering smoke from the fire and bite of the wind. It was an easy lie.

Pushing away from the ledge, he dumped out the dredges of his beer, long since gone flat, and tossed the bottle into the almost empty ice chest.  He checked the little fire pit - it had been doused hours earlier and was completely cold to the touch -  and flipped each of the space heaters off in sequence.  It would be a hell of a thing if he were the one to burn the building down after all the work he had put in to protect it.

Clint turned to go but found his feet still rooted to the spot.  He didn’t want to go back down to the mostly empty apartment.  Not quite yet. He was going to have to steal back his dog from Kate tomorrow.  

Acting on impulse, Clint walked over to the edge of the roof which hadn’t been cleared of the snowdrifts for the party.  Bending down, he scooped up enough snow to make a tightly packed little snowball.  Happy with the start, he began to roll it back and forth in the nearest snowbank until it was about the size of one of those yoga balls that were all over Tony’s gym and yet no one ever touched.  

He rolled the large ball back across the roof and over to the corner where he had been watching the boys play.  

Happy with the positioning, he went back over to his snow bank to start the process over again, this time letting the end result be just the tiniest bit smaller than the original.  It was harder than he thought it would be, hoisting it up and balancing it up on top of the first, but Clint got it accomplished.

The final bit he left at just under the size of a beach ball. This one was an easy carry and was quickly put in place now that he had the hang of how to stick the pieces together.

Wiping his chilled hands against his jeans, Clint surveyed his handiwork.  Well… it kinda looked like a snowman.  The general form was right, he guessed, though it might be a bit lopsided and dingy from the dirty snow, but close enough.

Walking over the fire pit, he poked around in the ash until he found the little stash of charcoal briquettes that had been used to start to flame.  He fished two out carefully, double checking that they were cool. Perfect.  

With as much care as he had ever given to lining up a shot, Clint pushed both pieces into the snowy face to act as eyes. The charcoal sank easily into the wet snow, but some bit of lingering warmth trapped in the coals caused the left to shift just ever so slightly south of even to the right.  

If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.  Clint reached out to adjust the fallen eye, hoping to be able to make them match. The motion drug his fingertips across what would have been the snowman’s cheekbone - where it to have such a thing - leaving behind a sooty black smudge.

“Aww, snowman…” Not even five minutes into it and he had already fucked it up.  

Surveying the damage, Clint thought he might be able to just scrape off a layer of snow to fix the mistake.  Or maybe pat some extra over the top like a little snowy concealer. Or maybe…

Struck by inspiration, Clint went back over to the fire pit, grabbing up the ashy remnant of a log.  Coating his fingers in the dark substance, he carefully smudged a bridge of dark shadow across his snowman’s face, lining the eyes like aggressively applied grease paint.

Getting into the spirit of it, he broke off a few little pieces of the bark and placed them beneath the eyes to form a little frowning mouth.  Now he was getting somewhere.  It just needed the finishing touches.

Rooting through leftover firewood, he was able to turn up a long skinny stick that could conceivably function as an arm.  The stack of building materials left over from the last time Clint had thought about doing building repairs yielded a thin stretch of rebar in a similar length.

Clint jogged back across the rooftop to jab both of his new gains into the snowman’s middle piece.  

Perfect.  His little snowman with its angry mouth, heavily racooned eyes, and perfectly mismatched arms was absolutely perfect.

Fishing his phone from his pocket, he snapped a few quick pictures for posterity.  It wasn’t like there was anyone he could show the pictures to.  Natasha would just frown at them.  Steve would end up sad. Tony wouldn’t get it. Bruce… who knows.  Sam would question Clint’s life choices.  Ohh well. Didn’t matter. The pictures could just be for him.

Reaching out, Clint patted the snowman companionably on his snow shoulder.

“What can I say, it’s just you and me buddy. Your turn to keep watch.”

Walking back to the door, Clint snagged the mostly empty ice chest and checked the heaters one final time.  With a last glance over his shoulder at the snowy sentinel, Clint flipped off the flood lamps and headed inside. It was time for bed.

 

* * *

 

Grumbling, Clint batted at the cell sitting on the nightstand until the screen illuminated. 6:16am. What the hell was he doing awake at 6:16 am. There was, at least, an hour left yet before the sun came up and a good five before anyone in their right mind would expect him to be functioning.  Given his level of exhaustion when he drug himself into bed the previous evening, Clint wouldn’t have been surprised to sleep through the entire day, truth be told.

But, here he was, wide awake and no good reason for it. He lay there for a few minutes more, still as a corpse, listening for any sound or tick or feeling that could have woken him, but came up with nothing.  

He had two choices, he could lay there pretending to sleep and feeling sorry for himself, or he could drag himself out of bed and do something about the damn tree.  It had seemed like such a good idea, standing there in the quiet of the forest, but now, in hindsight, he was feeling a bit silly over the whole affair.

With a sigh, he scissor-kicked his feet, disentangling his legs from the coiled blankets.  The air was just on this side of  unpleasant against Clint’s bed warmed skin, but not cold enough that he felt the need for an additional shirt. Or pants.   The boxers would be enough.

Clint stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen surviving only two near catastrophes.  He made a bee-line directly for the coffee pot.  As the room filled with the gurgling of the percolator and the bitter aroma of god’s own nector,  Clint’s eyes were drawn to the long bow still mounted over the sofa.  What a difference a year makes. He stood there, lost in the recollection until the soft ding indicating that the brew was finished returned him to the moment.

Not even bothering with a mug, he slid the carafe from its base, tossed the plastic drip top into the sink and took a deep gulp directly from the pot.  The hot glass burned against his lip and the dark brew scalded the whole way down but Clint couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Nursing the rest of the brew, he ambled around the kitchen island to survey the damage. Yup. Just like he left it.  All his gear still piled in a heap to the left of the door. The tree, still wrapped in the cargo netting, propped drunkenly against the far window.  The cooler he had carted down last night, miraculously still holding a small reserve of beer, tipped on its side from where he had dumped it, leaking a small pool of water (he hoped it was water) across the floor.

Where to even start.

Walking to the hall closet, Clint paused briefly to toe the cooler back upright and eye the puddle. It actually wasn’t as big a mess as he had been expecting. Talking another drag from the carafe he looked around for something to sop up the spill.  No towel or blanket or scrap of fabric insight - other than his avenging get-up, but the ballistic nylon wouldn’t soak up the water (he was still holding onto the hope that it was water) for shit.  

Finding no other alternative, he juggled the pot between his hands and stripped off the faded heather tee that he had passed out it.  He gave the shirt a cursory sniff - not that whatever scent he might have found would have mattered - and unceremoniously dropped it onto the puddle.  Using his foot to muck it around a little, Clint grinned a little into his coffee.

Pronouncing the clean-up job as good enough for now, he trudged the rest of the way to the closet.  He was pretty sure that Kate had boxed up all the Christmas decorations from last year for him and put them away somewhere.  The closet as as good of a place to look as any.

Setting the coffee carefully atop a leaning stack of books in the bookshelf, Clint took a bracing breath and tugged open the closet door. Yup. Just as much of a disaster as he remembered.  

Boxes were stacked on boxes, most crumpled from the weight of being poorly positioned and way too long in storage.  The hanger bar was completely devoid of coats - all of those were lazing about haphazardly over said boxes. The upper tier of shelving held several of his old quivers and what looked like a deadly game of pickup sticks made entirely of jumbled arrows, mostly of his own creation.

Hoping to get lucky, Clint pushed the coats out of the way and began to scan the sharpie marks scrawled over some of the boxes.  A few of the notations were actually useful, all written out in Kate’s tidy script, carefully detailing the contents. Some of them just said “Seriously, Clint?” but that was probably telling enough to their contents.  Others were marked in his completely illegible chicken scratch. No telling what those held. And then there was a whole stack that featured nothing by an exaggerated sketch of a frowny face.  Hmm. Probably not what he was looking for either.

All in all, nothing that just screamed “Here be red plastic balls and silver crinkly garland and other assorted choking hazards.”

Standing back to survey the mess as a whole, Clint scratched idly at the skin of his hip and ran his fingertips over the goosebumps beginning to pebble there.  Maybe surrendering the shirt was a bad idea.  Without the warmth of the coffee pot, the winter chill licking across the floor was more pronounced against the soles of his feet and there was the slightest of icy breezes worming its way through the tear just beneath the left ass cheek in his raggedy boxers.

Pants. Pants first, then continue on the quest for the right box.

Thusly decided, Clint snagged the coffee pot back from its perch (knocking the stack of books to the floor in the process, but hey, at least the coffee was safe) and had a profound sense of deja vu.  His life might be an ever spinning zoetrope depicting a train wreck, but he was pretty sure this exact conflux of events hadn’t happened before.

Turning towards the stairs (and the prospect of pants) he caught just the barest shadow of movement beyond the window leading to the fire escape.  It was just a blur, most likely the feral alley cat that he definitely was not feeding (You can’t prove anything, Katie-Kate. Photographic evidence or it didn’t happen), but the awareness pushing at his skin spurred Clint into motion.  It might be the cat, sure.  Or it might be a thief or those tracksuit assholes again or any other manner of nasty specifically designed to ruin Clint’s day.  This was Clint’s building, damn it, and no one skulked around it except for him.

He dropped the carafe down onto the kitchen island- carefully; he wasn’t a heathen - and snagged his bow from the pile of gear by the door.  (See. Sometimes it pays to not put everything away, now doesn’t it.)  Reaching back into the closet he grabbed the quiver, slinging it over his shoulder in a well practice move and only giving the tiniest of yelps when the frigid metal of the clasp made contact with his bare skin. A second grab yielded a fistful of arrows and he was ready to go.

Taking his first step towards the window and today’s bout of heroics, Clint made a slight miscalculation.  He forgot about the dislodged books.  Tripping over a dog-eared edition of _Good Omens_ , Clint stumped forward.  He managed to stay on his feet, only stubbing three of his toes in the process, but flung the hand holding the arrows out and directly into the coffee pot, sending it spinning off the counter and down to shatter across the floor.

Aww, come on.

Without wasting the time to mourn the loss of the coffee - that would come later - Clint sprinted across the living room, threw open the window and dove out onto the fire escape.   The landing was empty, but Clint caught a flash of deep red disappearing over the edge of the roof and the metal beneath his feet was vibrating as if it had recently been played against by heavy footsteps.

Clint took the first set of stairs two at a time.  He skipped climbing up the second set completely, instead choosing to vault up and onto the rooftop, hoping for the element of surprise.  He would be at least a good 4 feet to the right of where whomever he was chasing might be expecting him to show, and Clint was banking on the extra seconds that would afford him.

No sooner did his feet touch rooftop than he was in a crouch, bow at full draw, aiming at… a cluster of bored looking pigeons picking their way through the leftover crumbs from last night shindig.  

Clint scanned the roof one more time before lowering the bow.

It was impossible.  There had, without a doubt, been someone outside his window. Clint was sure that he had heard the muffled beats of boots against the fire escape and he didn’t think he was hallucinating the flash of burgundy disappearing over the parapet.  He had to have been though, there was no way anyone was making it off this rooftop.  The only other building even remotely close had to be at least a 12-foot gap and an even further drop and that was all the way on the other side of the building. Whomever he was chasing would have had cross the entire span of the roof in the short amount of time it had taken Clint to get up the stairs.

With a bang, the interior service stair door blew open - pushed from the inside and snagged by the cold December wind.  Clint swung, bringing the bow back to bear, pointing it directly into the startled face of his downstairs neighbor.

“Everything all right, Hawkguy?”

Clint managed to swallow down the adrenaline still bubbling up from his chest long enough to answer. “Yup. Everything's good, Tito. Sorry if I woke you.”

“Nah, no worries. I’m always up by now. Just heard something run up the escape above my window and wanted to check it out.  Didn’t think it would be you though. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you up this early.”

Clint chuckled awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Yeah. Thought I heard something too.  Must have just been the wind.”

“Probably, so.  Well, I’ll go back to my newspaper then and leave you to it, but, not that it is any of my business or anything, but you might think about grabbing your coat if you are going to stick around up here. It’s only supposed to get colder.”

Glancing down, Clint realized that, yup, he was still just in his boxers. Standing on a rooftop, fully armed, in his underpants, in the middle of December.  He didn’t know what was worse: all of that, or the fact that his neighbor didn’t seem to find it one bit out of character.

“Ahh. Good plan. Thanks for the tip.”

Tito nodded once and stepped a bit further out onto the roof to grab ahold of the door handle, intent on pulling it shut.  

“Aww, ain’t that a shame. Poor fella.”

Clint turned to follow Tito's eye-line.  The little Winter Snowman Clint had constructed in the corner of the roof was looking worse for the wear. Sometime during the night, the wind had knocked the head free from the rest of the body.

“Don’t worry about, Tito. I’ll fix him. You go back to your puzzles.”

“Will do Hawkeye. Will do.”

With a final parting wave, Tito wrestled the door back shut and was gone, leaving Clint all alone.  The smart thing to do would be to run down, grab his coat (and maybe, you know, a shirt and pants) and then come back up and fix it, but he was already here and already freezing and he felt kinda bad about his poor construction, so what difference did it make.  Might as well make it quick.

Trudging through the fresh snow, Clint rounded over to the snowman’s side to grab the liberated head.  Picking it up carefully, he turned it to look into the little coal black eyes and was pleasantly surprised to find the ash warpaint was still smeared to maximum effect.  

He brushed a bit of detritus from the snowman’s cheek and rolled it over in his hands.  Despite the fall, it looked none the worse for the wear.  It wasn’t until Clint turned the rest of the way towards the snowman’s body that he noticed the knife sunk deep into the snowy chest - exactly over what would have been his little snowman heart.  

The blade held up a filthy paper napkin with dark blocky words scrawled across its surface.

Clint tugged the knife from the snowman’s chest. The blade was long, wickedly serrated, and still slightly warm to the touch. Carefully freeing the note, Clint smoothed it flat with his fingertips.  The paper was wet but not saturated through. There was no way it had been there that long. Whoever had left it had done so recently.

_**Not Funny.** _

Clint read the pair of words at least twenty times. Each time the smile on his face grew just a little bit broader and the laughter starting in his gut bubbled up closer to the surface. Before he knew it, he was clutching the note to his chest, laughing like a loon.

It had to be Bucky. Had to be. Which meant that he had followed them back from Canada. He was here, in New York, and had been right here just moments prior.  It had to have been who Clint had spotted. No doubt.

But, why had he run? If he had been a Clint’s window, what had caused him to rabbit?

Before he could get any further down that line of questioning, the morning quiet was broken by the sound of a window across the street being forcibly shoved open.

“Clint Barton, what in the hell do you think you are doing?  Standing there in your drawers cackling like some crazy person.  Boy, you go back inside right this instant and put on a damned pair of pants!”  

Clint flushed scarlet, dropping both hands - still clutching their respective weapons - down to cover his crotch as he shuffled quickly back from the edge of the building.

“Sorry Mrs. Peters! I’m going right now.”

Whatever her reply it didn’t quite make it to Clint’s ears - both muffled by the sound of the slamming window and distance Clint was trying was putting between them.  Definitely time to go back inside.  

Feeling in better spirits, he whistled the whole way down the service stairs and up the hallway to his door, twirling the perfectly balanced knife between his fingers.  For whatever the reason that he ran, Bucky was here, in the city. He came to Clint once; he would probably come again.

Maybe today was going to be a good day after all.

That thought lasted just long enough for Clint to try the knob on his door. And then try it again.

Locked. Of course it was locked. Why wouldn’t it be locked? It wasn’t like Clint has left through it after all.

Turning, Clint trudged back down the hall, heading up towards the roof so he could make his way back down the fire escape to the window, his own variety of a walk of shame.  Maybe if he was lucky, Mrs. Peters wouldn’t be standing by her window to see him climbing back down.

Clint was never lucky. 


	3. Day Three: The Snowball Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Three: In which Clint almost gets a hot dog and convinces some kids to join the circus.

So yesterday had been a bust.

After skulking back down the fire escape, Clint had lost time, sitting up on the kitchen island contemplating the Bucky Barnes problem and spinning the abandoned blade between the fingers of his right hand.  The little note sat next to him on the counter and he absently rubbed at the tattered edges with his left.

There was no way that Bucky had followed them back from Canada just because Clint had suggested it. That wouldn’t make any sense. Clint was absolutely nothing to the man. A blip in 98 years of tragic history. But, blip thought he may be, Barnes had shown up on Clint’s doorstep - well, windowsill - rather than anyone else’s. That had to mean something, but exactly what, Clint couldn’t quite sort out.

Just as the sun was peaking towards full height over the city his phone chimed softly.

 _From: Nat  
_ \-- Shower. Eat. Sleep.

No sooner had he finished reading the first message, another pinged across the screen.

 _From: Nat_  
\-- Tomorrow you can cook me dinner.

Clint snorted at the phone and there was another little chime.

 _From: Nat  
_ \-- Be good, and I’ll bring home your dog.

That’s the one that made him smile. Maybe she had a point. Self-reflection could wait until later, right now, it was time for a nap.

The nap took the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

Thursday morning dawned beautiful and bright.  A perfect day to get things accomplished.  

The decision to take the rest of the day off yesterday had been a good choice. Clint had slept like the dead, woken peacefully long before his alarm, and here it was, not even ten in the morning and he was showered, dressed, fed, and ready to go.  

He was in the middle of pulling the mystery boxes from the hall closet, still in search of the elusive ornaments, when the phone rang.  

He should have checked the caller ID but he didn’t. It was a mistake.

The next thing he knew, he was being ushered into a town car, driven uptown, and put on Pepper’s left to act as her muscle-y, avenger-y backup at a board meeting.  Tony hadn’t given him all the specifics - just that he was unavailable, the good captain couldn’t be reached, the casual misogyny of the business men was bad for Bruce’s blood pressure,  and, well, someone needed to look appropriately intimidating to keep the uninformed inline.  Clint was the closest available option.  

Pepper was fully capable of taking care of herself, everyone knew it; Tony just hated when she had to prove that fact and he had to hire people to clear the scorch marks from the conference table.

Clint tried to say no. Was pretty sure he actually had said no, but he still found himself lurking just behind Pepper, arms folded across his chest, and practically asleep behind his sunglasses.  It was an easy enough job, and if someone had to do it, might as well be him.

His presence hadn’t been required for all that great of a span of time, maybe a few hours at the absolute most,  but it was just enough time lost to kill the motivation Clint had started out the morning with.  

Leaving the tower, he caught a cab over to Prospect Park.  The day was still lovely - the air cool and crisp, the sky clear and cloudless - and Clint didn’t feel like being cooped back up inside after the morning surrounded by steel and tempered glass.  A walk would do him some good.

The green space was crowded with families and teens and just about every demographic Brooklyn had to offer. He wandered aimlessly for the better part of an hour, up and down the running paths and along the lake with no particular destination in mind.  

Meandering past the site of the flower gardens Clint took a turn towards the south.  So often his feet had trod this same path. It was never his intended target, but on the rare event he came to this part of the city, it always ended up his final destination.  

He stopped just at the base of the bronze World War I memorial depicting the soldier and the angel tucked away in the rarely visited portion of the green space.  It was, unquestionably, the most morose thing the park had to offer and it didn’t surprise Clint in the least that it was sequestered so far away from the grand entrance and other more popular exhibits.  

He never could quite figure out exactly what the bronze was trying to say.  For as entwined as the two figures were, they were wholly independent. The angel almost reaching out to the man with one hand,  almost gripping tight to his hip with the other, but never quite completing either motion.  The soldier almost leaning back into the angel’s embrace, but locked apart forever, grasping his gun and holding tight to his own chest, too caught up in his own movement forward to accept the offered solace.

It was lovely, no doubt, but it always struck Clint as more of a sadness than a comfort.

Clint shoved his hands into his coat pockets, preparing to leave when there was a rustle of movement to his right.  He turned to look just in time to catch a loosely packed snowball directly to the face.  The snow was soft and wet and burst into a damp cloud upon impact.  The little explosion coated his eyelashes, stuck to the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave, and kissed its way into his mouth like a persistent lover.  

He stumbled back, flailed his hands free from his pockets to scrub at the residue on his face and claw away the icy chunks melting their way down his collar.  

There was another rustle of the shrubbery, again to his right. Not one to be fooled twice, Clint tucked his right ear to his shoulder and spun to the left…  into another snowball aimed with precision square in his face.  Whoever was responsible for the assault had managed to not only flank him, but lay a trap in the process.  This meant war.

Throwing both of his arms up across his face, Clint squinted into the foliage on the left where the second projectile had come from.  If he took another hit, so be it. It was an acceptable risk to identify his assailant.  He took one step towards the tree line when he was struck again, this time from behind, and directly onto the seat of his pants. This one with exponentially greater force.

Clint leaped forward with a startled yelp.

“Aww! Come on!”

Dropping his arms, he craned his head around to survey the damage.  Not quite able to see around the collar of his coat, Clint tipped his head further, beginning to spin in a tight circle on the spot much like a dog chasing his tail.  Sure enough, the entire seat of his jeans was plastered with a sheet of wet, sticky snow.

He stopped the examination of his own posterior when a fourth and final snowball made contact with the back of his head, dislodging the knit cap he was wearing and knocking it forward to cover his eyes.

Sputtering, Clint tore off the offending hat, spoiling for a confrontation, only to immediately lose all will to fight when he saw the laughing grey eyes of his attacker.  

“You?!”

The other man laughed, planted a glove covered hand (which did nothing to hide the strength of the metallic fingertips for all it concealed their sheen) against Clint’s sternum, and pushed, sending Clint stumbling backwards, ass first into a snow drift.  It hadn’t hurt anything other than his pride, but that was pretty much the point.

Bucky just smiled down at Clint, arms folded across his chest.  He had traded in most of the black riot gear from Canada for something more New York appropriate. Clad in a battered burgundy hoodie, ripped-up army surplus coat, and jeans so threadbare as to be almost winter white, he could have passed for any of the broke college urbanites that haunted the Brooklyn alleyways.  The sweep of dark hair just brushing against the top of his collar further helped to cement the image.  It was only the heavy black military issue boots that gave the look away as nothing but a facade.

Breaking eye contact, Clint scrubbed his palms against the knees of his jeans.

“I take it you were the one who murdered my snowman? What did he ever do to you, huh?”

Bucky merely grunted. “That was not a snowman. That was an abomination.”

Clint grinned. “Shhh. Don’t let him hear you say that.  Reliable source have indicated that he might act all gruff but is a real softie on the inside.”

“You need to find new sources.”

Clint laughed, quick and loud.  It was hard to fit together the picture of the stoic, monstrous Winter Soldier that even hardened killers had nightmares about and the scruffy, quick-witted, smiling mess of a man standing before him.  

Clint leaned back, acting like he was bracing his hands behind him on the embankment.  It was a careful balancing act to hold his weight entirely on one hand to cover the motion of his other rolling up a small ball of snow.

“So… what brings you to Brooklyn?”

That was the wrong question. Bucky’s face lost some of the lingering mirth, and he looked away with a shrug.

“No more Hydra bases to crawl down the chimney of?”

The follow-up question was similarly disregarded.  “The ones I know of have already been dealt with.  Hadn’t had any new leads, so… came here.”

“Leads? You still have contacts with Hydra?” Clint was hoping the answer wouldn’t be an affirmative. Prayed it wouldn’t be.  If it was, then he would have to try to take Bucky in. To start, Clint was sure that it could even be accomplished on his own, and second, he was beginning to suspect that giving Bucky up might turn out to be almost as painful as surrendering his bow. That last bit made no sense - Clint hadn’t even spent a cumulative hour in the other man’s company - but it was what it was.  

“No.” Bucky glanced back over a Clint from the corner of his eye, “Any ties there have been… severed.”

Given the tone, Clint was pretty sure he meant that literally, but before he could press, Bucky spoke again.

“Steve needs better security.”

That phrase hung in the air a long moment while Clint mulled over the implication.  As soon as it sunk in, Clint began to laugh.

“You broke into his apartment, didn’t you!? Did you bug the place? You did. You bugged the place. Ohh, that is fantastic! That’s how you are always beating him there; you know where he is going.”

Bucky looked full on at Clint again, answering amusement sparkling in his eyes.  

“Like I said, Steve needs better security.”

“You, are something else.” The phrase slipped past Clint’s lips of its own accord.  

Some of the laughter melted from Bucky’s face, to be replaced with a different sort of darkening than Clint was used to seeing. It wasn’t the cold, barely dampened agony that threatened to drown.  No. This was something raw that ran scalding hot and simmered under the skin with an entirely different type of promise. It sent a shiver down Clint’s spine.  

Bucky broke eye contact first, gaze going to track the motion of a mother with a stroller passing by.  Rather that deal with the emotions swirling in his chest, Clint decided to seize the moment.  He pushed all his weight to the bracing hand and brought the snowball up and around in a line drive toward Bucky’s disgustingly handsome features. Turn about, after all, was fair play.

Clint was already grinning. He was the amazing Hawkeye, after all - he never missed.

Without even taking his eyes off of the woman, Bucky snagged the snow missile out of the air and slowly, deliberately closed his fist to crush it into a fine powder.

There weren’t even words. It shouldn't have been possible, but there it was.

Clint didn’t have a response to that, so he did what any reasonable adult male would do in this sort of situation. He pouted.

Bucky dusted his hand off on the hem of his coat, completely ignoring Clint’s antics, and fished a small orange from the pocket of his jacket.  He rolled is over in his hands a few times before beginning to deftly remove the rind.

“I remember…” He paused in the motion, eyes unfocusing off the woman to settle in middle distance. “I remembered oranges. The tang. The texture. The grit of the rind beneath your fingernails.  It was one of the first things that really came back.” He scoffed out a bit of a laugh, “That and how damned expensive they were.  Now, you can get a whole bag of them for the change I can find in two minutes on the subway.”

Bucky finished peeling the orange, tossing the scraps over into the bushes.  Carefully he divided the meat of the fruit into two halves and offered a section down to Clint.  Not trusting himself to keep from ruining the moment, Clint only nodded his thanks, taking the offering with as much care as it had been presented.  Clint didn't know what had prompted the non sequitur, but whatever it had been, even he could tell the importance. 

Bucky ate slowly, pulling each little segment apart and biting each of those in half.  Anytime the juice would run down his fingertips, he would press the digit to his mouth, not wasting a single drop.  Bucky had completely finished his chunk, and Clint was still poised with his first bite halfway to his mouth.

“What else do you remember?”

Bucky gave another shrug.

“Nothing I ever notice.  It is like sometimes the memories aren’t there and the in the next moment they just… they just are.  I don’t even notice that I have remembered them. Like they were never gone. Sometimes I don’t like the remembering.”

The bad sort of shadows were back, and Clint hated himself for putting them there.  Popping the last of his orange into his mouth, he decided on one last plan of attack.

“Well, for as tasty as they might be, a man can’t live on oranges alone.  You up for a hot dog?”

Bucky looked back down at Clint for the first time since he had looked away but didn’t answer.

“I’m buyin’.”

Bucky nodded, just the barest movement of his head.

“I guess I could eat.”

“Awesome. Let’s get to it! Hot dogs all around! ”

Clint pushed like he was going to stand, and let his weight bearing hand slip out behind him on the snow in the perfect pantomime of clumsy awkwardness. With an exaggerated huff of air, Clint rubbed at the back of his head, feigning embarrassment.

Bucky took the bait hook, line, and sinker.  He rolled his eyes and offered his own left hand down to help pull Clint to his feet. Jackpot.

The cardinal rule is always, _always_ let it be your marks ideas. You want to win? Let them think they came up with it.

As soon as Clint grabbed hold, he let his weight drop back against the snow. Rolling into the grip, he swept out his right foot to catch Bucky squarely behind his knees.

The plan worked splendidly insofar as it knocked Bucky completely off balance, pitching him forward towards Clint and the snow.  It failed spectacularly in that Bucky didn’t release Clint’s hand like he expected. Instead, Bucky rolled them as he fell to land on his back in the snow drift with Clint drug half atop him.

 Well. This was bad.

Clint was pressed against Bucky from right shoulder to left hip, drug forward when Bucky had pulled out for balance with their combined hands.  All the chill from the December air completely dissipated, going up in flames beneath Clint’s mortification and the heat pouring off of Bucky’s body.  They were pressed so firmly together that Clint could feel every thrum of Bucky’s heartbeat and the every contraction of muscle timed to breath.  

Clint held himself stock still, afraid of the fallout.  Natasha sometimes still pulled a knife on Clint if he sneezed without warning and the trauma caused to this man was arguably worse, if you took into account the duration.  Rather than put six inches of steel between Clint’s ribs, Bucky started laughing.  The iron hold he had around Clint’s wrist slackened until it was just the barest of bracelets.  The other hand was brought forward to burn a brand low against Clint’s waist.

Clint didn’t move an inch. This was too surreal.  

Bucky’s laughter tapered down to silence, but he still didn’t shove Clint off. Instead, the thumb on his right hand ever so slightly began to sweep back and forth, grazing just under the hem of Clint’s coat and sweater to brush against bare skin.

It was one of the smallest, lightest touches Clint had ever been the recipient of, and yet it was hands down, without question, ten thousand times over the most erotic.

Clint couldn’t help it, he shivered, his skin flushing a deep scarlet.

“Well played, Hawkeye.”

“You know, you can call me by my real name.”

Recognizing the moment - or whatever the hell it was - as over, Clint pushed up, and off of Bucky to sit up next to him in the snow.

Bucky didn’t have anything to say to that. He just laid there a moment longer before rising to his feet.  

With one last lamentation for moments lost, Clint followed suit.

“Come on. There is a guy that normally sells killer hot dogs about a block from here.  You’re gonna love them.”

Bucky gave a quick nod and gestured out for Clint to take the lead.  The walk to the hot dog cart was quiet but companionable, only barely tinged with the lingering tension from the bout in the snow.  Bucky let Clint set the pace and didn’t seem to mind the slow amble the rest of the way out of the park.

Once they made it to their destination, the silence continued.  Bucky was close enough that the sleeve of his battered coat brushed against Clint’s arm with every exhale.  Other than the slow, metered breaths, Bucky was almost preternaturally still.  It should have felt uncomfortable - the proximity and the silence - but Clint caught himself syncing his breathing to Bucky’s to better lean into the touch.

There wasn’t much of a line, but the couple standing in front of them were obviously regulars - asking all sorts of question about the hot dog proprietors kids - so Clint let his gaze wander.

Just up the street, behind Bucky’s back, Clint watched two uniformed patrol cops make their way towards them.  Both were younger men, fit and attractive.  They were laughing and arguing amicably about something or another, Clint just couldn’t quite make out what.  When they were just close enough to be well into eyeline, the younger of the two jerked to a halt, staring hard at Bucky’s profile.  He elbowed his partner and gestured in their direction.

This was bad.  Plenty of time had passed since the disaster in DC, but some things were hard to forget. Some people even harder.

Clint reached out to gently grab Bucky just above his right elbow.

“I need you to not freak out, okay?”

Bucky’s gaze snapped to Clint’s.

“There is a pair of uniforms just to my left.  I think they might have made you, so we need to go. Nice and quiet, okay?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide and feral, the exact opposite of what Clint was hoping for.  He could have dealt with the soldier’s violent calm, but it was much harder to contain cornered fear.  Clint watched him tilt his head just enough to catch sight of the cops over his shoulder, the flesh and blood arm beneath Clint’s hand going rigid.

“Come on. Nice and -”

“You can’t be seen with me.”

“It’ll be fine. We can lose them in the crowd.”

“They can’t think you are with me.  You can’t be tainted by that.”

“I don’t care about that. Come on. Let’s just -”

“No!” The word was bitten off, quiet but mean, and Bucky wrenched his arm from Clint’s grip.  In a move so quick that Clint had trouble tracking it, Bucky spun them about, shoved Clint towards the street and tipped over the hot dog cart like it didn’t weigh a thing. “Run!” The order was broken off just as Bucky took off in a full sprint down the alley in the opposite direction.

Before Clint could fully steady himself, both cops gave up any pretense of indifference. One took off in pursuit of Bucky the other heading in Clint’s direction. The smart thing to do would be to take Bucky’s advice and take a different path. Clint never did the smart thing.

It must have been a sight - the Winter Solider being chased by a cop, being chased by Hawkeye who was also, in turn, being chased by a cop.  Cue the Benny Hill theme music, anyone?

Glancing back, Clint gauged the distance between him and Cop #2.  Easy.  Without slowing, Clint bent down, scooped up a bit of litter (Thank You, New York), and pitched it over his shoulder.  He didn’t bother checking his aim. Didn’t need to.  The sound of a body hitting pavement and boisterous swearing was indication enough. One down. One to go.

It didn’t take long for Clint to catch the other cop.  He actually felt a little bad when he reached out and shoved the guy into the pile of garbage.  Really, he did. The kid was just doing his job, after all.

There wasn’t any time to linger with the guilt, though. Bucky wasn’t slowing, still sprinting ahead of him full bore.  So far, Clint was keeping pace, but the distance wasn’t closing and there was only so much longer Clint was going to be able to keep this up.  He was pretty sure the cops hadn’t gotten back up and were at least a few blocks back by now, but Clint didn’t want to start calling out Bucky’s name, just in case.

Just a bit further ahead, there was poorly designed bit of Brooklyn where the north/south sidewalk was completely intersected by the downslope of a ramp leading over to the next block.  The ramp was at least fifteen foot across and had barrier rails on each side to keep bike messengers and yuppies too focused on their phones from taking a header down into what was basically an extended ditch.  

The design, with its many slopes, rails and ledges also made it a favorite hang out for the kids of the area.  They liked to play at being part of the skater scene, but mostly they just hung around looking bored.  They were also incredibly good at being right in the damn way.

The obstruction, and the kids, were easy to navigate around - you either took a short jog to the left and went around the top of the ramp or went to the left to skip down the seven or so stairs and just climb back up on the other side. It wasn’t anything major, just an annoyance, but it might just give Clint the moment he needed.

With the way that the never-ending construction and restoration of the area was currently situated, where they were going to intersect the ramp was just around a blind corner.  It might not be much, but Clint was hoping it would be enough of a slowdown to buy him the time he needed to catch the rest of the way up.

As Bucky rounded the corner, Clint lost sight of him for just a moment. He was counting on Bucky going to the left. The left would be the logical choice. He was probably left side dominant given the body modifications and going around the top of the railing would be quicker than jumping down the stairs and having to climb back up.

Clint made the same turn just in time to witness how incredibly wrong that estimation was.  Bucky didn’t go to the left. He also didn’t go to the right.  Ohh no. Instead, he just pushed through the gathered teens, stepped up like it was nothing at all to plant a foot on the top of the rail, and hurdled himself forward over the chasm.  He landed easily with one foot on top of the other rail and dropped back down to the sidewalk without ever breaking stride.   If Clint hadn’t seen it himself, he never would have believed it.

Fuck. Ok.  _This_  was bad. There was no way Clint would be able to vault the full distance like that. No way at all... but maybe… maybe he could make it to the other bar. It couldn’t be that much different than catching a trapeze, right?  Didn’t matter that it had been years since he had tried that particular trick, but hopefully, just like riding a bike, it would be all muscle memory and power of determination.

If he missed, what is the worst that could happen? He would lose the chase? That was already happening. Concussion or broken bones? Hi, I’m Hawkeye, have we met?

Here went nothing.

Putting on a final burst of speed, Clint ran easily through the already parted gathering of kids.  He grabbed ahold of the top bar of the railing, pushing off the ground and propelling himself forward over the top with as much force as he could muster.  Rolling in the air so he was belly-up, Clint arched his back, stretching his hands out above him and tipping his head as far as he dared, praying that the other railing would be what came into his eye-line instead of an unyielding wall of concrete.

Jackpot.

Fingertips just barely reaching the opposite bar, he heaved himself up, using the momentum of the jump to swing himself under, around, and up to the top of the railing.  The motion terminated with Clint’s left hand still holding on for support and the toes of his right shoe perching him up on top of the railing in a crouch.

Cursing the time the maneuver had already cost him, Clint stood up. He spun around deftly, scanning the crowd hoping the extra little bit of height that staying balanced atop the bars allowed would provide an advantage.  Nope. Nothing. No sign of a retreating red hoodie or wildly streaming dark hair.  

Resisting the urge to swear, Clint looked down, preparing to hop of the bar. There not six feet away, just standing there with a look that could probably be coded as amazement or maybe incredulity (or was that rage) drawing his eyes wide, was Bucky.  

Bucky’s proximity was enough of a surprise to break Clint’s concentration.  He teetered just a bit, soles of the sneakers losing traction on the slippery rail.  Flailing his arms out wildly, Clint managed to balance himself just well enough to jump down without face planting into the concrete.

Bucky was still just standing there.  The look on his face had settled into what was definitely incredulity.  He took a large step towards Clint.

“What the hell were you thinking?! I told you to run! Why didn’t you run?!”

“ I did run!”

“I mean in the  **other**  direction!”

Clint went to press through the gathered crowd towards him but was caught up short by a small swarm of teenage boys crowding in around him.

“Dude! That was awesome!”  “How did you not die?” “Man!”

Bucky’s expression was sobering out, edging back into the neutral-bordering-on-murderous that seemed to be the default and he had stopped moving closer.

“I wasn’t going to leave you!” Clint called it out, pitching his voice above that of the kids.

“Why?” The question was soft, Clint reading his lips more than hearing the words.

“Seriously? That was wild!” “Man, you gotta do that again!”

One of the kids was tugging at his hem of his coat. “Where did you learn the trick?”  

Distracted by the flat, confused look in Bucky’s eyes, Clint answered the question.

“Uhhh. The circus?” No sooner as he said it, he regretted the choice.  Answering one just spawned a thousand additional.

“Seriously?!?” “That is sick, man.” “How did you do that? Will you do it again?”

Clint ignored them all.  He was too busy trying to come up with an answer to the one question that mattered.

Why hadn’t he run? The answer was deceptively simple. Between safety and Bucky, he chose Bucky.  Clint might not be known for his self-preservation instincts, but even for him, that choice didn’t make any sense.  If he couldn't explain it to himself, the it definitely wasn’t an answer he could reason out to the other man.

There was a tug on his pant leg. “Hey! Aren’t you Iron Fist?”

“What!? Ugh. No.”  The last question had Clint answering with disgust, looking away from Bucky to search the crowd for the little miscreant who had dared asked it.  He was an Avenger, damn it. Was a little respect too much to ask for?

Remembering exactly what it was he was doing, Clint looked back up.  He still didn’t know how to respond to Bucky’s question, but he was going to figure it out.  One way or another.

Clint didn’t get the chance, though. Bucky was gone.

 

* * *

 

Shouldering open the door to his loft, Clint was greeted with the smell of home cooked spaghetti, the sounds of classic Christmas music playing softly through the radio, and the site of Natasha draped across his sofa sipping leisurely from his last bottle of beer with her bare feet propped up on his dog.

“Welcome home, Hawkeye. Heard you had an exciting day.”

Clint grunted noncommittally, toeing off his boots and dropping his keys into the bowl on the bookshelf.  After Bucky’s disappearing act, Clint had wandered the streets and alleys hoping he would turn back up. No such luck.

A quick survey of the room indicated that Natasha had been here awhile.  The pile o’ gear had been moved somewhere off the floor.   The tree was unwrapped and had been placed into a base to stand in the corner where his punching bag typically hung.  It was still devoid of any new decorations, but there was an open box sitting next to it which looked to contain the tinsel strings of garland and other paraphernalia that he had been hunting for.

Lucky thumped his tail against the couch in greeting but made no move to get up.

“First, a meeting with Pepper - I bet that was fun - and then a stroll through the park, where you brooded your way through the morning. Then there was the foot chase with a wanted fugitive through East Flatbush, an assault on two of New York’s finest, and then, my personal favorite, witness reports of you telling a group of children to go join the circus.”

“I did no such thing! Ugh. This is how rumors get started, Tasha. _Join the circus..._ ”  Clint didn’t even bother to ask her how she knew. It was easier to just accept that she did as fact than ask questions.

She waved a hand dismissively as he trudged over to the couch.  The dog gave a soft chuff,  so Clint ruffled Lucky’s fur and waiting for an invitation to sit on his own damn couch.  Natasha didn’t make him wait too long.  She brought her knees to her chest just long enough for Clint to drop down onto the middle cushion before stretching them back out across his lap to burrow her toes into Lucky’s fur.  

He took the beer from her hands, swallowed down a long drag, and passed it back.

“The rest of it, though, yeah, that all happened. Does Maria know?”

“She knows about the sighting. I don’t think they know you were the one who gave him aid.” A pause. “Did you know who he was when you helped him?  

“Yup.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

“He is dangerous, Clint.”

“Yup.”

“I mean it.  Have you spoken with Steve?”

“Nope.”

“He might be able to -”

“I said, no, Natasha.”

“You need to know what you are getting into here, Clint.  This isn’t a joke.  He could have killed me. Steve. Sam. I know you have read the reports.  He could have killed us all.”

“I know, but…” It probably didn’t need to be said. Clint said it anyway. “So could've I.”

There was no response to that. There never was.

“Anything else I should know about?”  The words were soft, delicate as breath, lacking her typical tone.  This was that part of Natasha that she kept so hidden, so rarely shared, that Clint counted amongst the highest honor to be allowed to see.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, tipping his head back against the back of the couch.

“Yes… No… Yes… I don’t know ‘Tasha…”

He felt her shift, scooching closer to him and resting her head against his shoulder.  The movement jostled the dog, who in turn yawned and bent around to pillow his chin on Clint’s knee.  

Clint could just tell her. Tell her that he met the Winter Soldier on the mission with Steve three days ago.  Tell her if felt like so much longer. Tell her that thoughts of the shadows haunting the soldier's eyes pressed out the memories of iridescent blue and the fear of golds and greens.  Tell her that Clint had made Bucky smile.  Tell her that Bucky had made Clint laugh harder than he had in years.  Tell her that he thought that they might be broken in the very same ways.   She would understand.  She might not agree, but she would understand.  All he had to do was tell her.

Clint let the words turn to ash on his tongue. They just sat there in silence, listening to Sinatra and Crosby croon about the reasons for the season.  She didn’t press; she never did. Sometimes he wished she would. Sometimes he loved her all the much more because she didn’t.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

He felt her take a deep breath and release it slowly. Straightening up, she stretched her arms over her head, arching her back like a cat, and stood. She ruffled the fur on Lucky’s head softly, and then, face back to its normal smirking mask, did the same to Clint’s golden mess.

“Alright then.  Maybe tomorrow. After skating.”

Clint groaned, swatting at her hand and taking the offer to let the moment lighten.

“Do we really have to?”

“You know we do. Tony set it up himself.  If he cares enough about to do it on his own, the least we can do it support him in it, Clint. Besides, it’s for the kids.  How bad can it be?  We don’t have to stay for long, but we have to show.” She gave a laugh, “Besides, you know you want to see Steve on ice skates.”

“Just wait. He is probably going to be amazing at it.” Good or terrible, the thought did make Clint smile.  Besides, Bucky tracked him down today out and about in Brooklyn. Who is to say that he wouldn’t do the same again tomorrow.  Sure, there might be more people and cameras and Steve there, but you never knew.

“Fine, fine. Skating it is. But right now, pasta.  That was pasta I smelled, right?  I’m starving.”

She laughed, hauling him to his feet off of the couch. “Of course you are.”

“And later, you are going to help me decorate that tree. But, I gotta know, where did you find the box of stuff? I’ve been looking everywhere for it.”

She laughed again, hip-checking him into the counter. “Ohh, Hawkeye, wouldn’t you like to know?”


	4. Day Four: Ice Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: In which Clint learns of something he can do better than Steve and gains a house guest.

Even Clint had to admit that the ice skating thing was pretty impressive.

Tony had managed, somehow, to get the permits necessary to block off a stretch of street almost three blocks long directly in front of Stark tower. Overnight crews had come in to board up a perimeter, lay sand and plastic and who knew what else on top of that to create an Olympic quality outdoor ice rink smack dab in the heart of Manhattan. A lesser man would have just used Rockefeller Center; never let it be thought that Tony Stark was a lesser man.

According to the signs Clint had spotted upon arriving, they were charging five dollar for an hour on the ice or twenty for all day access.  All the proceeds went towards a charity endowment that Pepper had set up in Tony’s name to provide funding for school science programs and after hour organizations.  Though he hadn’t been present for the unveiling several months prior, Natasha had been; she had told him that Tony had cried. Clint wished he could have seen it.

Clint hadn’t made it in time to catch the opening dedication for the event, but it didn’t look like he had missed all that much.  The first group of skaters were packed out in the ice, and if the size of the crowd waiting in the wings was any indication, today was going to be incredibly profitable one for the charity.  

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Clint glanced around trying to spot a check-in or admin booth or something of the like so he could get this started.  When a quick scan didn’t yield any workable results, he went for the next best thing - finding anyone he knew in the crowd to stand with until someone with authority told him what to do.  

Tony was easy to find, schmoozing to a local news crew; Natasha and Pepper chatted quietly Bruce behind him. It was as good of a place as any.

Just as he moved to head in their direction, there was a whoop of laughter and a cheer from the crowd. Clint looked up just in time to catch Sam swoop by, decked out in full Santa regalia.  He had opted out of the beard, but the velveteen suit was of serious quality and his flight goggles had been glazed over to match.  Even the normal gunmetal gray of his wings had been painted in bright silver and candy apple red, no doubt a Stark contribution.

“Way different than my day.” While Clint had been watching the aerial spectacle, Steve had come out of nowhere to stand beside him. “Not that I am complaining, but three years ago, if you would have told me that I would be seeing any of this, I would have called you a damned liar.”

It took Clint a minute on the uptake, still caught off guard anytime Steve swore (despite how ridiculous that stereotype was) but it sunk in quick enough. For Steve Rogers, three years ago was still 1944.  

“I’m not going to be much help defining normal. I grew up with the circus; for me, this is just another Friday.” Steve smiled at the remark, but didn't offer anything else. He tipped his head in the direction of the stage, and then moved past Clint, no doubt to head towards the rest of them.

“Hey Cap. You gotta minute?”  

Steve turned, brows raised in response to the question. It wasn’t often that Clint solicited his time.

“Sure. What can do I do for you?”

Clint rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.  He really should have given this more thought before bringing it up.

“It’s about what happened in DC.”  Steve’s expression lost some of its openness, eyes going tight and pained, so Clint pressed on as quickly as possible. “I’ve seen the reports and have, you know, what Nat told me, but I was wondering about your side of it… about…” Clint trailed off, unsure if he should even bring up the name.

“About….?” Steve asked, obviously not quite tracking with Clint’s train of thought.

With a bracing breath, Clint went for it. “About Bucky.”

Steve just held Clint’s eye for a dozen excruciating heartbeats.  Clint and Steve were teammates, sure, but it wasn’t like they were the best of friends. Just when Clint was opening his mouth to apologize, Steve took a deep breath and looked away.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Clint.  I made my choice. I don’t regret it. I don’t think I need to explain my actions -”

“No!” Clint threw his hands up in supplication, “Not what I meant at all.”

Steve’s expression lost some of the hard edge and he no longer looked quite so much like he was spoiling for a fight.

Clint pressed on, “I’m the last person in the world that is going to tell you that you shouldn’t have made that choice.  I meant more about… about what he was like before… I never really read about him... and you… that sort of thing… and then after I met you it just felt like prying and I was just curious…”

Clint trailed off awkwardly. Well. This was going swimmingly.  “You know, never mind. It’s no big deal; I think they are about to need us anyways and we should -”

“Bucky was just… Bucky…” Steve interrupted, expression becoming unfocused, gaze lost to memory and middle distance.  “He always looked out for me when I was too stubborn to do it myself, you know.  Everyone always thought he had a knack for trouble, but, really it was exactly the opposite;  I was always the one getting into it. Bucky was who pulled me out. He…” Steve chuckled, a little sadly, “I swear, he could have sold you ice in the dead of winter and you would offer to pay him double for the effort.  I’m who I am today because of Bucky. If it hadn’t been for him, well… I don’t know what would have happened, but unquestionably none of this.”

Clint had to look away.

“The things that have been done to him… the things they made him do…. I don’t….” Steve ran a hand through his hair, irritation at not finding the right words evident. “I know he isn’t going to be who he was before, but that is what it is. I’m not the same guy I was back then either.  I just want a chance to tell him that… to let him know it doesn’t matter.”

Clint swallowed heavily. He had known their history was thick, no way around that, but that… there was no way on earth he could even begin to compete with that.

He was saved by having to come up with a response by Tony giving a sharp, ear-splitting whistle as he retook the stage.  Grinning, Tony flashed a pair of peace signs to the waiting paparazzi.  “Ladies and Gents - As much as I am sure you are already having a fan-tastic time, I have a special surprise in store-”

Clint tuned whatever the speech was going to be out, still mulling over Steve’s words.  They hadn’t really answered any of his questions and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the information he had been given.

Steve clapped Clint hard enough on the shoulder to have him staggering a bit beneath the weight. “He was a good man. If given the chance, I think he could be again. He shouldn’t be defined by the actions forced on him by others.”  The last bit struck deep. “You would have liked him.”

Clint laughed at that, sharp and slightly bitter. Ohh, Cap. If you only knew.

“- so, step right up to the indicated Kiosks, pick your Avenger, make your deposit, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”  There was a roar from the gathered population. Tony brought his hands to his mouth to blow exaggerated kisses to the crowd, even as Pepper hauled him forcible from the stage, obviously displeased by whatever had been in the announcement.

Clint looked over at Steve, hoping for clarification as to what that was all about. Maybe he should have paid attention after all if Steve’s horrified expression was any indication.

It didn’t take Clint long to get with the program.  When he had received the summons to appear, it had been heavily implied that all that would be required was for him to show up, smile for pictures, spend time with some kids - the normal PR schtick that came with being not only a part time superhero, but friends with Tony Stark.  What had _**not** _ been mentioned to Clint - or anyone else if their general demeanor was any indication - was that Tony had decided to sell tickets for individual skate time with the various members of the team.  

The system was shockingly fair.  There was no price gouging to spend time with one team member - though Tony probably could have raised a hell of a lot more money that way.  Instead, it was a pay-what-you-can setup, where each hour the gathered throng could make a tax-deductible donation of whatever amount they wanted. It could be from a single penny up to their entire 401k, didn’t matter. As soon as the transaction was complete, their name went into a raffle. At the top of each hour, a name was drawn to match with each of the assembled Avengers for fifteen minutes of one-on-one skate time staggered throughout the hour in a special, cordoned off area of the rink.

In no time at all, there were lines around the block at each of the garishly painted, cubicle-style depository kiosks spread around the make-shift rink.  The only booths that were lacking a crowd were those painted red and black, Clint assumed to be designed for Natasha.  Upon closer inspection, there was a handwritten “Out of Order” signed taped on every one of the screens.  

He and Nat were going to have to have a conversation about this later, no question about it. If she had known what was coming, the least she could have done was warn a guy.

The first two rounds of the raffle had been an absolute disaster - not because of a free for all or entry scalping or anything of that sort.  Ohh, no. It was a disaster in that, as luck would have it, the winners for both Steve and Tony’s drawings had only been there for a chance to get all handsy up in an Avenger’s business.  Clint had never seen Steve quite that shade of scarlet and he was positive that one of Tony’s paramours had escaped with a piece of his boxers.  It was beyond fantastic.

After that, there was a strict “winners must be under the age of 15” rule enforced.  It was an easy sell - this was a fundraiser for the kids, after all - but Clint was pretty sure that the groan of disappointment from the gathered Manhattan Singles Club could be heard into well into Jersey.

For Clint, the most surprising part of the whole affair was the number of boys and girls who all wanted to put their names for his drawing.   **His**.  Steve and Tony and Sam’s adoring public he could totally understand, but Clint had started out convinced he was going to spend the whole day sitting on the sidelines, twiddling his thumbs, and trying to look like he wasn’t disappointed. Wallflower, today thy name was  _not_ Clint Barton.

Now, he might not have had as many entries as the rest of them, but his ego could handle that hit.  Every one of the children he had been paired with had been fantastic.  Most of his winners had been little girls, and had mostly wanted to talk about Kate, but that was fine by Clint. A Hawkeye was a Hawkeye, after all.  

At the moment, Clint was sitting up on the railing of the rink, letting his heels bounce against the perimeter wall in time to the Christmas carols.  He had just turned his latest partner back over to his father, and was taking a moment to just enjoy the sights.  

Steve was out on the ice being hauled around by a giggling pair of twin girls that had been allowed to put their names in as a package deal.  Natasha had been right, Steve was absolutely terrible on skates.  He was game about it though, smiling as he flailed about, all gangly limbs and turned in ankles, and he sure picked himself right back up every time ass met ice.

“Huh. I don’t remember him being that bad when he was smaller.”

The unexpected voice so close to his ear startled Clint, sending him jerking forward.  He would have fallen off of the ledge, except for the hand that fisted into the back of his jacket, holding him in place.

“You have _got_ to stop doing that! Someone needs to put you in a damn bell.”

As was becoming a habit, Bucky ignored the outburst.  As soon as Clint stopped shuffling around, Bucky released his hold on Clint’s coat. Instead of stepping away like Clint would have expected him to, Bucky moved a little closer to set his left hand on the far side of Clint’s hips, effectively caging in against Clint’s back.  

Clint craned around to get a look at him. “What the hell?”

Gone was the urbanite hobo look from the day prior.  Bucky had lost the beat-up jacket and was sporting a well tailored set of slacks and a knee length navy woolen coat that probably could pay a month of rent for Clint’s loft.  There was no more ball cap over loose hair either. Ohh no. Bucky had slicked it all back into a tight little bun at the nape of his neck.  The only thing that was the same were those damn combat boots. “What did you do? Burgle a damn J. Crew?”

Bucky had the good grace to look a sheepish.  Clint doubted he got the store reference, but the implication was obvious enough.  “This is a nicer part of town. I wanted to fit in.”

“Well, you got it in one then. I wouldn’t have recognized you. You look good.”  Clint hadn’t been intending the compliment, but was glad he had made it given the pleased expression spreading across Bucky’s face.

“What else have you done today, other than rendering unsuspecting mannequins indecent?”

Bucky gave another slight shrug, looking away from Clint to watch Steve fall down yet again out on the ice.  Clint was amazed at how brazen he was being, standing there so close and out in the open.  “I remember him insisting on going skating once.  The details still aren’t there, but I can remember being so… frustrated with him about it. I just knew he was going to break his damn leg and I didn’t know how I was going to explain that to his ma or make it better.”

Clint looked away from Bucky’s profile to see the girls pulling Steve back up on his feet. Each taking one of his large hands in their own, and skating backwards as a pair to tow him along.

“He proved me wrong though - took to it like a duck to water.  I’m the one that spent the majority of my time falling on my ass.” Clint felt more than he heard Bucky laugh at the memory. “He sure did a lot better than this.”

“When did you remember?” It was a sobering question, but Bucky took it in stride.

“Don’t know. This morning, yesterday, last week I probably wouldn’t have known. But just now, watching, I just… it was just there.” Bucky was quiet for a long moment, “ You think it’s the change in size?”

Clint could take the hint and let the subject drop. “Beats me. I figured he would show us all up at it.”

“Nah, he might be a lot of things, but Steve’s never had it in him to peacock. You on the other hand…”.  Bucky knocked against Clint’s shoulder with the edge of his chest but didn’t quite move back all the way into his previous position. They were practically flush against one another now, and if Clint were to turn his head… probably best not to think about that actually.

“And which hand, exactly, was it that we were talking about?” Clint moved his knee out to bump against Bucky’s thumb where it rested on the ledge.  He left it there.  As absurd as it was, Clint couldn’t shake the feeling that they were playing at some form of game.  If it were anyone else, and even as dense as Clint might occasionally be, he would think it was a flirtation.  “So… I was thinking…”

Bucky chuffed, “Well, there is your first mistake.”

Clint faked an affronted frown. “Can it, Tin Man. Really though, where have you been staying?”

Bucky was quiet long enough that Clint didn’t think he was going to answer.

“Abandoned apartment complex in Brownsville.”

Clint whistled long and low beneath his teeth.  “Rough bit of town.”

“I’ve been in rougher.”

“Supposed to get real cold tonight. You’ve got any heat?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’ve been in colder.”

Clint’s brain assaulted him with images of cryotubes and icy ravines and frozen forests.  He barely resisted the urge to shiver.

“Just because you have been, doesn’t mean you need to be. Why don’t you...” Clint took a steadying breath, “why don’t you come stay with me.”

Bucky’s answer was quick and decisive. “That’s a bad idea.”

It was Clint’s turn to sound dismissive, “Yeah. So what? I’m apparently full of 'um.”

“Clint…”, the name on Bucky’s lip sounded like a benediction.

“It'll be fine. No one ever bothers me. My neighbors keep to themselves. No one has to know you are there. It has to be safer than wherever you are saying.” Clint tried to convince himself that he wasn’t lying through his teeth. Most of those things were true. Well, some of those things were true. Well… one of those things was true. Close enough. “I don’t like the idea of you being out there alone. Everyone needs someone to watch their back, especially if they are going to go around looking like that.  Half the population of Brownsville would knife you for that coat alone.”

Bucky was close enough that Clint could feel him tense, no doubt about to launch into an additional argument. Clint let go of the ledge top to raise raised his hands in surrender. The movement tipped him just enough to rest his his weight Bucky’s arm where it was still braced behind the small of his back.  

“I get it. I get it. Trust me, I am well aware you can take care of yourself. But knowing it isn’t the same thing as not worrying about it.”

Even after his hands returned down to the railing, Clint didn’t move away, just stayed pressed into the embrace.  He knew it was wrong, on so many levels, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to care.  Bucky had instigated proximity and contact way more often than Clint had ever done. If he wanted to move, he damn well could, and Clint could take the hint.  Until then, well, no harm in pressing his luck.

“Alright.”

Clint turned his head to look at Bucky’s profile, surprised at the easy acquiescence.  Ohh yeah. Mistake. They were exactly as close together as Clint thought they would be.  From this distance, Clint could count every lash, every crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and every fleck of blue in the storm cloud gray.  Clint could see the sparse smattering of what a generous man might call freckles against his cheekbone. He could see the smallest of scars marring  the skin just above the edge of Bucky’s mouth.  And that mouth... Christ… Clint was in trouble.

Bucky had pulled in his bottom lip to worry it gently against his teeth.  It was hypnotic, the press and slide, the way the skin paled with the pressure only to darken back to a richer, riper pink.  Clint was struck with the bone-deep desire to touch, to reach out and press bowstring calloused fingertip against that mouth to see if it would be as chapped as it looked, if it would be as warm to the touch as the rest of him, if it would feel as _right_ as Clint was afraid it would.

It wasn’t until Bucky gave another nod that Clint realized he had been staring.

“Alright.”

“Great!” Clint leaned away just slightly desperately trying to rein back in his wayward libido. He twisted his body around so he could clap his hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “Let me go tell Stark that I’m out of here and -”

“No.” Bucky turned his head to make eye contact. “Stay. Finish up with what is needed here. I have gear to retrieve and can just meet you later.”

Clint vacillated over agreeing to that. It wasn't that he didn’t trust Bucky to turn back up, but… well, he didn’t trust Bucky to turn back up.  The concern was apparently written all over Clint’s face.

“I’ll be there.” Bucky pressed his flesh and blood hand to Clint’s knee.

Clint nodded once. “Ok, ok. I’ve got another hour or so and then I will head that way.  Here - “ Clint looked down towards his pocket and shifted his weight to begin to rifle through it, “I’ve got my keys around here somewhere…”

Bucky chuffed out a laugh, squeezing Clint’s knee slightly. “I don’t need one.  You have terrible security, too.”

Clint snapped his head back up. “Well… hmm… how do you… No. You know what. I don’t want to know.”  

“Probably for the best.” With another soft squeeze, Bucky released his hold on Clint and stepped back and away.  The cold, evening air rushed to fill the vacancy.

It felt like Clint was forgetting something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

Bucky tossed him a quick, loose two finger salute and turned back into the gathered crowd.  Somewhere across the park, a dog barked and Clint realized his mistake.

“Hey -!” He broke off quickly. For as dumb as it was at this point, Clint had no clue what to call Bucky. Calling him by his nickname seemed to personal without an explicit invitation; Barnes just sounded silly to his ear, and, well, Winter Solider was out of the question for the obvious reasons.

Despite Clint’s hesitation, Bucky turned back.

“Lucky. I’ve got a dog; his name's Lucky.  He will be in the loft. Just thought you should know.”

Even from this distance, Clint could make out the roll of Bucky’s eyes. “That dog’s not very good security, either.”

Without saying another word, Bucky disappeared into the crowd.  Clint watched the spot where he had disappeared for a long moment, before turning back to the rink. Despite what he had agreed to with Bucky, he didn’t have any intentions of staying the full duration until the rink closed.  

Gaze scanning the crowd, hoping to spot Tony so he could see about pulling his name for the list, Clint caught a glimpse of brilliant red over the expanse of ice.  Directly across from him, Natasha stood, arms crossed about her chest.  Her face was hard, mouth a tight line. If he were a betting man, Clint would put money on her having seen the entire thing.

Not knowing what else to do, Clint tossed her a sheepish smile and a shrug.  He was too far to catch the nuances of her expression, but her sigh was expressive enough to be distinguishable despite the distance.  She shook her head softly, and then carefully unfolded her arms, bringing her hands up in front of her body.  Clint watched her curl in her lower digits in and press her thumb up and between her index and middle fingers.  Without breaking eye contact, she set one hand atop the other, tapping them together briefly for emphasis, and then brought them up, forward and down, drawing a circle in the air.

_Be careful._

Clint swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat.  With a nod, he brought his right hand up to touch his fingertips to his mouth and then dropped his hand forward, thanking her for her trust in him the only way he was able.

She shook her head again, expression no longer quite so foreboding.  She looked away and waved her hand dismissively. Without looking back, Natasha gestured with two fingers in the direction Bucky had gone, clearly urging Clint to follow.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Hopping off the ledge, Clint followed after.

 

 


	5. Day Five: Christmas Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Five: In which Clint falls deeper down the rabbit hole and Kate makes an assumption.

“Clint?”

Kate’s voice echoed through the expanse of the loft, rousing Clint from slumber.  He didn’t bother giving a reply, just burrowed deeper into his pillow.  It was wrong that he could hear her. He typically took his aides out before going to bed, but apparently last night he hadn’t. He couldn’t exactly remember why though, and it was too much work too early in the morning try to suss out the reason.

“Clint? Are you alive up there? It’s kinda important.”

He still didn’t give a response. If it was so damn vital, she could come up here and ask him in person rather than hollering up the stairs like a child. She knew better.  Maybe if he just ignored her, she would go away.

She said something else, but Clint couldn’t quite make it out. She must be talking to the dog.

“Clint.” His name had lost its cajoling tone and was short and harsh.  “I _really_ need you to answer me. I think the guy pointing the gun at my face might like that too…”

Clint bolted upright in the bed. Shit. **Bucky**. He had completely forgotten about Bucky.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, when Clint had stumbled through his apartment door the night prior, Bucky had been there waiting.  

He had made himself right at home on Clint’s couch and was deftly reassembling a pistol.  There were several more weapons of various calibers laid out next to him across the couch and spread about the table.  Two vicious looking, long barreled rifles and an assortment of blades were calling the kitchen island home.  Clint’s little loft had been morphed into an armory.

There was a large black backpack and a green duffle resting against the edge of the couch.  Lucky had been busy investigating the bags, but bounded over to Clint, barking excitedly the moment he came through the door.

Clint shuffled the paper sacks he had been holding to reach down and greet the dog.  Rather than head straight home, Clint had stopped by a little food mart just a few blocks from the building. He had been pretty sure the only thing he had in his fridge was an ancient bottle of mustard he never touched and maybe some leftover thai takeout.  If he was going to bring home a stray, he damn well needed to feed him. There might have also been a call to his favorite pizza joint. Getting food was one thing; cooking food was something else entirely.

Bucky finished what he was working on with the weapon, and looked up at Clint.  He whistled softly and Lucky immediately trotted back over to him, sitting at Bucky’s side, tongue lolling out in a doggie grin and waiting for affection. Bucky reached out with his left hand to gently stroke at the dog’s ears.  Lucky huffed a sigh, leaning deep into the touch. _Yeah, you and me both, buddy._

“I figured you wouldn’t be back til later.”

Clint shrugged, opening the fridge to put up his purchases, bags and all. “Decided I had put in enough face time for the day.  Was getting tired.”

Bucky hummed, still stroking the dog. Just as it looked like Bucky might be going say something else, the doorbell chimed.

Clint happily paid the delivery boy, slammed the door, and plunked the three large pizzas down on the table.  “I didn’t know what you liked, so I kinda had them mix up everything.”

Bucky stood from the couch and walked over to Clint, looking warily at the boxes.  His gaze slide to the left in the fashion Clint was coming to realize meant he was trying to see if he remembered an answer.  His face grew tight. “I don’t know. I don’t remember… this.” He gestured at the boxes.

Clint forced a smile. “Your lucky day then. Grab a slice of everything and let’s figure this out.”  Ignoring the scalding temperature of the gooey cheese, Clint snatched up the nearest piece, brought it to his mouth and took a ridiculously large bite.  Chewing with his mouth open to cull some of the steam, he smiled more broadly, gesturing with his head down towards the box.

Hesitantly Bucky followed his example.

They made it through the entirety of two of the large pizzas and leaving only the smallest section of the third.  As it turned out, Bucky liked pretty much all of them except for the one with the anchovies.  Clint agreed, wholeheartedly, with that assessment.  Even Lucky wasn’t allowed to eat those particular leftovers - Clint citing the reason that the fish gave the dog gas and Bucky didn’t see fit to question.

Full and content, Clint couldn’t quite stifle the yawn.  Bucky did the same soon after.  If Bucky had been sleeping on the streets, and no doubt on high alert, it was no wonder that he would be exhausted. The evening was still early, but Clint figured that if he acted like he was tired, Bucky would follow suit.

Pitching the empty - or might as well be empty - boxes atop the trash can, Clint wiped his hands against his jeans.  “You probably already figured it out, but bathrooms upstairs if you need it.  I’ll grab you a pillow and some stuff for the couch.  You got anything to sleep in?”

Bucky looked confused by the question. “Should I have?”

“Yeah, man. Nobody likes to sleep in jeans. Nobody. If they tell you they do, they can't be trusted. I’ll grab you some some of that sort of stuff, too. Use what you want, ignore the rest.”

Clint turned to head up the stairs, but was stopped by Bucky’s hand against his wrist. His eyes were a touch wide, brows twisted in an expression Clint didn’t have the key to read. “Thank you.”

With a soft smile, Clint shook his head. “Nothing to thank me for.”

Bucky just squeezed his grip a little tighter, expression more insistent. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” It was all Clint could do to keep his heart from his eyes.  He was already wearing it on his sleeve, but no need to be quite so transparent about it.

Clint stood still until Bucky released him.  He skipped quickly up the stairs to begin gathering the promised items. _Keep it together, Hawkeye._  He repeated the mantra through his head like a touchstone.  Bucky was here because he had nowhere else to go, nothing more.  He was a trauma survivor and who knew what else.  His trust was just a type of attachment syndrome.  As soon as he went back to Steve, it would be over. Clint would be just a stepping stone in his recovery. He would move on and Clint would just have to accept that.

With a shaky exhale, Clint pressed forehead against the close door. It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

Clint ran down the first few stairs, and skipped the rest entirely by vaulting over the railing.  This was bad. This was going to be so very, _very_ bad.   

Kate stood just inside the closed door, arms laden down with an assortment of grocery bags.  She was as perfectly put together as always, despite the ungodly hour of the morning. Lucky was dancing around her feet, tail wagging wildly, completely indifferent to the tension.

Just across from her, around the edge of the kitchen island, was Bucky.  One of the counter stools was knocked over backwards and there was a spilled bowl of Clint’s Fruit Loops creating a lake of rainbow colored milk over the laminate countertop.

Sometime during the night, Bucky had changed into the clothes Clint had set out for him.  The sight stopped all of Clint’s higher brain function in its tracks.  

The faded long-sleeved tee was way, _way_ too tight.   It barely stretch across his shoulders, clung to his chest, and outlined every ridge of muscle running down Bucky’s back.  Clint could practically hear the seams screaming out for mercy from here, though he wasn’t sure if it would be classified as agony or ecstasy.  Clint swallowed thickly; he didn’t even want to begin to think about how the sight would look from the front.  

The pajama bottoms were as equally poor of a fit.  The stretched out elastic of the waist was too loose, causing them to hang sinfully low on Bucky’s lean hips.  The fabric over his thighs was having the opposite problem, straining in much  the same condition as the shirt.   Despite as jaw dropping as the rest of the picture, it was the fabric pooling over each of Bucky’s feet, practically hiding his bare toes, which sunk any hopes Clint had about getting out of this with his heart intact.  The pants were too long - _way_ too long.  Up until this very moment, Clint had figured that they would have been about the same height, but if the fabric was to be believed, then Clint had to have at least three, maybe four inches on him.  Huh. Figure that. Must have been a trick of the muscle mass or the way he carried himself or -

“Clint…” Kate’s voice broke through the derailed train of thought,  “Maybe you could stop ogling your boyfriend for a moment and we could discuss the gun?”

“Wha-?”  Clint’s brain snapped back to the moment.  So wrapped up in the rest of him, Clint had completely missed the pistol clutched in Bucky’s right hand which was currently centered dead of mass to his partner in crime.  Bucky’s left hand was curled up behind his back, sleeve pulled down to covered as much of the metal digits as it could. He was still clutching onto the cereal spoon.

“Ohh. Right.” Clint rubbed at the back of his neck. He had two options: either tell the truth or…okay, nevermind. He had one option. “Umm. Katie this is James Barnes. He is going to be putting the gun down now.” Clint looked back over at Bucky, still having yet to resolve the _what the hell do I call you_ problem. “Umm.. This is Kate Bishop.  She’s the other Hawkeye.”

Kate had taken her eyes off the gun during the introduction to stare, wide-eyed at Clint.

“Did you say…Barnes?”

“Uhh. Yeah. Yeah, I did.  He’s probably going to be staying here for a few days. You two should get to know each another. ”

With obvious reluctance, Bucky lowered the weapon, though Clint noticed he didn’t engage the safety.  

“You’re sleeping with the Winter Soldier?!” Kate’s voice was shrill, the closest to a shriek he had ever heard it.  Lucky immediately dropped his head, hung his tail and darted back over to stand at Clint’s side. There went Clint’s hope that maybe the name wouldn’t have rung any bells. The sound was so jarring he almost didn’t catch exactly what it was she had said.

“Wait, what?” Clint snapped his head back in Kate’s direction.

“I knew you have a serious danger kink, Clint Barton. We all knew it, given your habit of systematically gravitating to the most dangerous person in the room, but this…. this is a whole new level even for you…”

Clint's eyes darted between Kate and Bucky in growing horror.  Kate looked borderline outraged. Bucky just looked bored.

“No. You got the wrong idea here, Katie.  He is just staying here with me for a few days.  It’s not like that. He’s not like _that_.”

“You really expect me to believe that you have all of that,” She flapped a hand in Bucky’s direction, encompassing the full scope of his body, “right here in your reach, and you haven’t done anything incredibly stupid?” She scoffed, though it ended in a sigh, “How am I supposed to keep you safe when you pull this sort of crap.”

Bucky snorted in what could have been interpreted as a laugh. Clint wasn’t sure what he was more insulted by, and his distraction over the picture Kate was painting wasn’t doing anything to help him decide.

“Now, wait just a sex, Katie...”  There was another snort from Bucky. “Sec. Wait just a **sec**. He just needed a place to stay, really. That’s it.”

From the corner of his eye, Clint could see Bucky set the gun back on the counter.  He stooped to straighten the stool and then sat back down to reclaim what was left of his cereal. Kate unceremoniously plunked the bags she had still been holding down by the fridge so she could cross her arms over her chest.  This was not going well.

“Clint…” Kate’s voice had gone soft.

Reading the social cues better than Clint himself would have, Bucky scooped up the bowl and stood from the table.  He turned and moved in Clint’s direction, which also happened to be the route to the stairs.  Bucky paused briefly, his eyes searching Clint’s face and his expression guarded.  Clint couldn’t tell if he found whatever it was he had been looking for or not.  With no change in expression, Bucky moved past, letting his arm bump gently against Clint’s in the process.  He snapped his figures, and Lucky left Clint’s side to follow after. The unlikely pair tread lightly up the stairs and a few seconds later Clint heard the click of the bathroom door in the loft being shut.  It wouldn’t do all that much to muffle their conversation, but it at least gave the illusion of privacy.

“Clint -” Kate started back up again.

“I know, Katie. But, I couldn’t... I needed to…” Clint ran his hands through his bed-tousled hair. Even days later, articulating the motivations rollicking in his chest wasn’t growing any easier. “He deserves a chance to come in from the cold.”

Kate uncrossed her arms, taking a small step closer.  She no longer looked angry, just concerned.

Clint pulled out the ace, the only card he was holding,  “Nat knows.”

That stopped her in her tracks. “And she thinks this is a good idea?”

All Clint could do was shrug. “I don’t know if she would use those words, exactly, but she gave her blessing - kind of. Close enough.”

“Or she just knew you were going to do it anyways.”

“Or that.” Clint conceded.

Kate moved the rest of the way forward to stand right in front of him. “I still don’t know if this is a good idea, Clint.”

“No. It’s probably not. But just because it’s a bad plan doesn’t mean that it isn’t the right thing to do.”

“You’re going to get attached.”

“Too late for that, Katie-bird.” Clint went for light with a bit of a laugh, but even to his own ear he knew the effort had fallen short.  He had to look away from the sympathy in her eyes.

After the briefest of hesitations, Kate leaned forward, wrapping Clint in a hug. She pressed her cheek against his to whisper against his ear, “No matter what, I’m here for you, okay?”

Clint swallowed against the lump in his throat, returning the embrace. “Okay, Hawkeye.”

With one last squeeze, she released her hold and turned back to what she had carried in.  “I brought you groceries.”

“I have food, Kate.”

“Twizzlers and cheese puffs do not satisfy all the nutritional requirements, Clint. You need real food.”  She was pulling all manner of things leafy and green and unprocessed from the bags.  “Also - you need to get dressed. We are going Christmas shopping. I know you haven’t even started.”

“Aww, shopping.” Clint knew it sounded like a whine. Knew and didn’t care.

“Yup.” She popped the “p” loudly. “We don’t have to be gone long, but you need to go.  Remember Tony is doing that big Christmas party slash gift exchange extravaganza thing on Christmas eve. You are not going to be able to get away with dropping gifts off in mid-January and pretending they got lost in the mail this year.”

Clint grumbled non-syllabically.    

“I’ll even pick everything out for you if you want. You just need to be there so it won’t be a lie when we tell them the gifts are from you.  You shouldn’t ever lie around Christmas.”

“Fine.” There was no point fighting it. “We can go.”

“Perfect!” Kate clapped her hands and rubbed them together excitedly, right before she threw open the refrigerator door. She rounded on Clint immediately. “Clint. You have food in your refrigerator.”

“I have been told that is what normally goes in there.”

She ignored the sarcasm, “You _never_ have food in your refrigerator.  Why do you have food in your refrigerator?” She narrowed her eyes searching Clint as if she could find the answer scrawled across his body.  It didn’t take long for her to land on the answer. “You bought him _food_.” She hissed out the statement.

“A man’s gotta eat.”

At the quiet confession, her expression went back soft and she turned to make room for what she had brought amongst what Clint already owned, carrying on like the little outburst hadn’t happened.

“Okay, so, shopping it is then, and we can bring your new _roomie_.”

Clint didn’t miss the emphasis. “I don’t know if that is really his thing, Katie.”

“Pfft.” So that is where Clint picked up that noise. Good to know. Or, had she learned it from him? Clint guessed it didn’t really matter either way. “No harm in asking, and I’d like to spend a bit more time around him.  Make my own opinion. If you trust him, I would like the chance to do the same.” Clint couldn’t argue with that logic. “Least you can do it let me ask, okay?”

“Okay, but don’t get your hopes up.”  

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” might have been the words that came out of her mouth, but her expression told him she was lying.

With one last sigh, Clint trudged back up the stairs to retrieve the ex-soviet assassin eating his breakfast in Clint’s bathroom with Clint’s dog. Sometimes, he didn’t even begin to know how to explain his life.

 

* * *

 

It had taken a bit of cajoling, but ultimately Kate had convinced Bucky to come along.  She laid out a well orchestrated plan of attack detailing how the place would be packed and everyone would be so distracted by their own holiday problems that there was practically no chance of Bucky being recognized. She followed that one-two punch up with the killer left hook of how it would be better than spending the day all alone in Clint’s apartment - he didn’t even have cable - and even Bucky would probably be bored.

Clint knew that Bucky was going to decline, but ultimately surprised him by giving in pretty quickly.   There had to be some other reason for the easy acquiescence, but Clint couldn’t quite put his finger on it.  Deciding not to question, he quickly got dressed and they headed out.

Bucky was back in his original, generic incognito get-up, hat pulled low, over sized aviators firmly in place, and the collar of his surplus jacket popped up against the cold.  Clint had to tell himself at least a dozen times that he wasn’t disappointed about not getting to see exactly what it was yesterday that Bucky had been wearing beneath that woolen coat.

They had taken a cab over the state line into Jersey City.  It might not be Kate’s normal haunt, but Clint was pretty sure she knew she only had one shot at this. The Newport center offered the widest selection in the tightest radius, not to mention would be easier on Clint’s wallet than anything they could have found closer to home.

The onset of shopping went just as expected. Kate had a formulated plan of attack, dragging Clint (and Bucky) from store to store, chattering excitedly and singling along to the canned carols blasting from the mall speakers.  

Clint carried on for over an hour, despite the growing, palpable tension radiating off of Bucky.  This had been a bad idea. As Kate darted into another storefront, Clint took a moment to step back and lean against the railing overlooking the levels below.  Bucky followed suit.

“You holding up alright?”

Bucky gave a twisting facial expression that Clint wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“She can be a lot to swallow sometimes, but she's a good kid. A good partner.”

There was no response to that either.  Clint hadn’t heard Bucky say but maybe ten words all day.

“If you want to head out, that’s perfectly fine. We can beg off. Kate will understand and I don’t want you -”

“What did you mean?” Bucky broke in, interrupting Clint’s offer.

“Mean about what? Leaving?”

“Earlier. You said I wasn’t like _that_. What did you mean?”

Clint searched his memory, trying to place the context. As soon as it registered, he felt the start of a flush rise to his cheeks. Clint cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Well… she thought that… that you and I had… were… “ Christ. Clint was a grown ass man. You would think he could make it through the sentence.

Bucky surprised him and did it himself. “She thought we were sleeping together.”

The matter-of-fact statement had Clint choking on air.   “Well, yeah… yeah, she did.”

“Why?”

Fantastic. Wasn’t that just a hell of a question. “Well… typically when Katie shows up and there is someone there that she doesn’t already know… it’s typically because of… well… that.”

“But why did she think it about me?”

Clint knew he was full on blushing now like something was going up in flames behind his skin. It was probably his dignity. “I apparently have a type, and you… well, you tick quite a few of those boxes. She just took the information she had and jumped to a conclusion.”

Bucky’s expression turned a bit puzzled as he mulled over that statement.  Lots of people had found out about Clint’s sexuality in a lot of different ways, sometimes in ways that were pretty bizarre. Standing amidst of throng of people in a Jersey mall took the cake.

“So when you said I wasn’t like that, you were telling her that I wasn’t your type?” If Clint didn’t know better, he would think Bucky sounded offended.

Clint sighed again, dropping his head forward and covering his face with his hands. “No. It wasn’t that at all.  You are exactly my type.” Clint groaned. This was the worst conversation of his life. “I was trying to tell her that just because you were, it didn’t mean that you felt the same way; that we couldn't be like that.  With you being… you know… straight and all.. and me being… well… me...”

Bucky shifted against the railing, and Clint was certain he was going to leave.

“So that was all it was? You just said it to explain that there was no way I would have wanted you to fuck me?”

Clint promptly swallowed his tongue. He dropped his hands and snapped his head back up look at Bucky face.  Bucky’s eyes were sparkling with laughter now, all lingering concerns gone, and he had his tongue caught between his teeth. Clint couldn’t help it, Bucky looked so damned smug, he started to laugh.

“Asshole.” He reached out and shoved Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it. I didn’t want her to think you were something you weren’t, just because you were hanging around me. Okay.  The rest of it.. just don’t worry about the rest of it. I’m fine with it, if you’re fine with it.”

Clint looked away from Bucky and back into the storefront where Kate was jumping up and down and gesturing broadly.  She had some sparkly bit of fabric clenched in her hands and obviously wanted their attention.

“Come on, I think we are being summoned.  The quicker we get this over with, the quicker we can head home.” Clint shoved off the rail and headed into the store, gratefully fleeing the conversation.  He completely missed the contemplative expression on Bucky’s face, but it was probably for the best; Clint wouldn’t have known what to do with it anyway.  With one last lingering look, Bucky followed.

 

* * *

 

When everything was said and done, and Clint and Bucky had been dropped back off at Clint’s building, the day had ultimately gotten along pretty well.  Bucky had warmed up to Kate after he and Clint’s chat, even going so far as to tease her for picking up Clint’s penchant for the color purple.  She had called him uncouth, but took it in stride.  

Bucky had also spent the entire day ghosting so close to Clint that even when they weren’t directly touching, they were close enough for it to count.  It was little things, like Bucky pressing a shoulder to Clint back while the cashier was ringing him out, or standing just outside of Clint’s eye line and turned to keep watch over Kate when something else called for Clint’s attention.  Bucky was never obvious about it - Clint honestly doubted that even Kate had noticed - but it was there, constant and consistent, and Clint cherished that small display of protectiveness entirely more than he should.

Thanks to Kate’s help, Clint had picked up gifts for almost everyone on his list and all within the price parameters that had been established. It was an honor system, with all of the friends expected to abide by the rules. Well, everyone except for Tony;  no one was really going to be surprised by whatever wildly outlandish extravagance he concocted.

Clint had even talked Bucky into letting him buy the small sketchbook Clint had noticed him eyeing. It was a little thing, no more than a hundred pages, but beautiful bound in dark leather, tied shut with a lighter shade of thong.   It had to be a gift for Steve, even if Bucky hadn’t come out and said it as such, but that was fine. Clint bought it anyways. If it was what made Bucky happy, then so be it.

The only person he still had to get something for was Kate.  Every time he had tried to shake her throughout the afternoon, she just kept coming back, clinging harder, and insisting that he could not be trusted to his own devices.  Ohh well.  There would be plenty of time to make a quick trip out to grab her a gift tomorrow.

Right now, it was time to walk the dog and see what he could piece together for dinner from the combined store of groceries thanks to Kate’s generosity and his own impulse shopping.  Surely he could figure something out for he and Bucky to eat. Clint might not be the best cook in the world, but he hadn’t killed anyone with his food… yet.

Giving it a second thought, Clint decided to just order out.


	6. Day Six: The Mall Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Six: In which Clint gets nabbed and falsely vilifies Santa.

When Clint rolled from bed Sunday morning - ok, he could be fair, Sunday afternoon - the first thing he noticed was that Bucky was gone.  He wasn’t _gone_ gone, if the stack of gear still neatly stowed by the sofa was any indication, but he definitely wasn’t there.  

Clint ghosted about his business, pointedly not looking at the clock or watching the door with every creak and settle of the building.  It was fine.  Bucky had just gone out. No biggie.  So what if he didn’t leave a note. Clint wasn’t his keeper.

By three, Lucky had picked up on Clint’s agitation and was following him about while Clint paced. By five, the dog had given up to go lay on the couch and watch Clint be a moron.  By seven, Lucky had just disappeared upstairs with a whine. _Great_. Even the dog thought he was pathetic.

When eight rolled around, Clint hit his limit.  If he didn’t go now, he wasn’t going to make it before the shops closed and if he didn’t get something for Katie tonight, he didn’t trust his luck to hold out for him to find another time.

Trudging back upstairs to tug on his jeans and grab his oldest flannel Clint, told himself that he was being ridiculous.  Bucky was a grown-ass man. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, despite everything that had been done to him. More importantly, he could do whatever he pleased.  And, so, for that matter, could Clint.

Clint made it out the front door and down the hallway before his conscience got the better of him.  With a huff, he stomped back into his apartment.  Grabbing a sharpie from the cracked coffee mug beneath the phone, he scrawled “Gone Shopping” in bulky block letters over the front page of yesterday’s newspaper. Ripping the sheet free, Clint affixed to the front of the fridge with one of the little Avenger’s logo magnets Kate had stuck there.  It would have to do; Bucky could make of it what he will.  

It was too late to head into Jersey, so Clint was just going to grab a cab to Manhattan.  The mall there had pretty much the same store selection anyways and the extra in New York tax wouldn’t break the bank over a single gift.

It would be easy. A thirty minute cab ride, find that store where he had seen Kate eyeing the thing, find the thing, get it and get out.  He could be home by ten.  It was a good plan. Of course, none of it happened.

It had taken an eternity to find a cab, and then the guy took the long way to jack up the fare and got them stuck in traffic.  Clint got mouthy over the fee, which devolved into an argument that he had no chance of winning. By the time Clint gave up and just threw the guy his money, he just barely managed to squeak through the main doors at one minute until closing.

The store he needed was all the way on the other side of the mall, and three stories up, and the escalators were marked as out of order so it was a long damn sprint.  Two minutes past the announcement informing everyone that the mall was now closed, he hit the storefront. The gate was dropped and the store was dark. Clint pressed up against the glass, hoping to spot anyone milling about inside that he might be able to charm into letting him grab what he was after, but no dice.  

Fan-fucking-tastic. If he would have just gotten himself together earlier and not spent all day moping over Bucky, none of this would have happened.  With nothing left to do, Clint shoved his hands into his pockets, spinning on his heels, with every intention of just heading home. Instead, he came face to face with a man in a mask.

“Wha-?” Clint stumbled backwards. None one man. Six. Six men. Six men with masks. All carrying guns.  From the across the other side of the mall he heard a woman cry out. More than six men then.

“Grab him. Let’s do this.” The order came from somewhere in the back on the group, but it was the short man in the front, the one whose eyes looked wide and afraid behind the ski mask, who stepped forward. Clint turned to bolt but hadn’t even made it a step before one of the other men grabbed his jacket, yanking him back.  

As quick as it started it was over. Wide-eyes pistol whipped Clint once, missing his target and gashing a shallow split into Clint's cheek.  He didn’t make the same mistake twice.  The second blow struck true at Clint's temple, serving its intended purpose.

Clint had one last thought before the world blurred at the edges and blinked dark - _how was this even his life_?

 

* * *

 

When Clint came too, he was bound - poorly, with hands behind his back and ankles looped together - and gagged with tape - which wasn’t even remotely necessary - in what looked to be a mid-sized storage area.  Judging by the skyline just visible through the high windows, Clint estimated that he was still on the third floor. Most likely the room was an empty storefront then.  He thought back on the layout from when he had entered.  There had been a boarded up bay a few stalls down. It would make sense then, to stash them there -  less distance to move a herd of captives.

There were two men, still wearing the ski masks and sporting assault rifles, standing near the middle of the room.

Other than the guards, there were thirty or so other people in the room with him.  All were restrained in a similar manner - mostly store employees and various other support staff if Clint had to guess.  There was no way that this was the entire population of the mall; Clint had barreled past easily twice this number in last minute shoppers alone, so by his guess there had to be another group captives somewhere else. Possibly two.

There had been six men there when he was jumped.  If two of those six were the guards, and there were two other strike teams out there somewhere, and then a few extra bad guys to spare, and God Clint hated having to use math, then this was was a crew of _at least_ twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, men.  

That was not a good number, particularly given the addition of civilians and the massive amount of other unknowns.  Not on his own at least.

Clint calculated the odds. He was bound at the hands and feet, so five seconds to get free. He was unarmed, so he would have to take out both the guards in close quarters.  It was twenty feet between he and his captors, so another two seconds to make that distance.  They were armored in lightweight tactical gear, so to bring them down would be multiple strikes to the knees or throat, maybe another ten seconds, eight if he got lucky. It didn’t seem like that much time, but it was enough to get himself (or someone else) shot if he didn’t execute it just right.

It was a risk he was going to have to take.  If he could take out the guards, then he could probably get the other hostages out of the service corridor that always connected these type places.  There would have to be a fire escape stairwell close by.   It shouldn’t be any trick to disable that alarm and usher -

That was as far a Clint made it into his plan before the ceiling exploded inward in a shrapnel blast of fiberboard and miscellaneous detritus.  Clint ducked his head, burying his face against his shoulder to protect his eyes from the debris, but not before he had glimpsed the large, dark shape rocketing from the heart of the destruction.

It was over in a heartbeat.  Before the dust had even fully settled, both of the guards were neutralized, splayed out cold on the floor.  Looming over them like an avenging angel, was Bucky.  

Not even pausing to survey the damage, Bucky stalked away from the downed men and straight for Clint. Crouching before him, Bucky scanned Clint over, searching for any visible injuries.  It was impossible for Clint not to shift beneath the scrutiny.  

Finding no fault with the rest of him, Bucky looked back to Clint’s face and the small cut marring his left cheekbone that was still oozing blood down onto the duct tape covering his mouth.  With careful hands, Bucky reached up and ghosted flesh fingertips over the wound.  Clint heard the soft whirl of machinery as Bucky balled his left hand into a fist.  He didn’t have any time to think about the implications of the gesture; the hand that had previously been so gentle gripped the edge of the tape and yanked it off quickly.

“Ooooowwwww!”

Clint’s outburst didn’t even register. Bucky just stood, and stepped back and away to go over to the downed men.

“What are you even doing here?” No response. “How did you know where I was?” Still no response. “Did you come to rescue me?!?” Still more silence. “I didn’t _need_ rescuing!  I had it under control. I had a plan!”

Bucky just tipped his head slightly and twisted down one of the corners of his mouth, not looking back at Clint.  Clint knew that face; he had never seen it on Bucky before but knew it just the same. Natasha was the queen of that face. That was the "let’s agree to disagree _"_ face.  

To prove his point, Clint pushed up, and brought his wrists underneath him and around his still bound ankles to they were out in front.   In one smooth motion, Clint hopped to his feet and yanked his wrists sharply in against his stomach, snapping the loop of one of the zip-cuffs.   He waggled the dangling portion. “See! I had it under control.”

Bucky didn’t show any sign of paying attention. He had crouched by the soldiers and was busy going through their pockets.

Ugh. Refusing to be ignored, Clint used the loose edge of the broken cuff to shim his way out of the other.  Bending down, he did the same to release the set banding his ankles.

“Completely under control.”

Still grumbling beneath his breath, Clint stalked over to Bucky.  Giving no explanation for his action (it wasn’t like Bucky was listening anyway), Clint bent down, flipped the toggle clasp securing the large blade that Bucky had strapped to his thigh free and pulled out the knife.  He tested the weight and heft of it in his hand. It would do in a pinch but would be a pain to lug around.

With complete disregard to personal space, Clint crouched the full way down so his knees bracketed the full span of Bucky’s thigh and began to unbuckle each of the straps holding the knife’s sheath in place.  The two connecting it to  the belt came free easy.  It wasn’t until Clint was struggling with the clasps running up high on the inner slope of Bucky’s groin did it dawn on Clint exactly where his hands were.  Clint stilled his fumbling and could detect the faintest of tremors beneath his fingertips.  The rest of Bucky had gone still as stone.

Deciding that the damage had already been done, Clint hurried through releasing the rest of the fastenings.  It only took a handful of additional seconds to slip the sheath free, but the moments had stretched out forever to Clint’s reckoning.  

Not knowing how to cover up the intrusion, Clint did what he did best. He pressed on.  There was a brace of throwing knives banded around Bucky’s calf that would work well in a pinch.  Just as Clint reached out for them, Bucky planted a hand in the middle of Clint’s chest and shoved, sending him tipping backwards onto his ass.

Misreading the gesture, Clint tossed up his hands. “I’m not going to just wait here like some damn damsel in distress.  I’m going to take what I can, “ Clint waggled his hand at the knife he had dropped, “and help, damn it.”

Bucky stood, dusted off his hands, and walked back over to the hole in the ceiling he had come through.  He jumped up, grabbing hold of the sheared metal framework with his left hand.  Clint might be pissed at the treatment, but not so much so that he couldn’t be impressed when Bucky effortlessly hauled himself up high enough to grab at something tucked away in the crawl space.  

A large black duffle thunked to the ground at Clint’s feet.  Tearing his focus away from the casual display of athleticism, Clint crouched down to unzip the bag. Neatly folded inside was the full stock of his gear.  His compression shirt with its kevlar plates, his vest and coat, his pants, hell, even both quivers and the rest of his shooting paraphernalia were all stowed inside. The only thing missing was his bow.

Clint heard Bucky drop back down, so he looked up to thank him. Clint could make due with pinching a gun off of one of the baddies so long as he wasn’t doing it wearing faded flannel; he did have standards, after all.  The words caught in his throat.  There, in Bucky’s outstretched hand, was his bow.

“Aww, baby!” Eyes only for the weapon, Clint snagged it up.  He pushed the small mechanism on the side of the bow and snapped his wrist, letting the weapon unfurl out from itself, cooing at it softly. “Did you miss me? I miss you! Ohh, I could kiss you!”

“Me? or that thing?” It was the first words that Bucky had said since arriving.  Bucky was still standing in the spot where he had landed, temptingly close, and was looking full on at Clint, brows quirked in question.

“Umm… both?” Smooth, Barton. Real smooth.

Bucky just snorted and shook his head, clearly expressing his opinion that Clint was a lost cause.

Bucky turned away to looked back over at the huddled group of hostages, and for the first time since his arrival, he seemed hesitant.  He was standing feet braced and stock still, clutching at the rifle he had unslung from his shoulder like a lifeline.  It wasn’t hard to figure that one out.  The Winter Soldier had lots of practice killing things, not so much with keeping them alive.

Taking charge of the moment, Clint stripped off his shirt to begin pulling on his gear.  The jeans would have to do, but he would take all the extra protection he could get from the rest of it.

“Alright everybody. If you haven't figured it out yet, everything is going to be a-okay.  Here in a minute, I’m going to cut each of you loose.  While I’m working on that, the man in black over here,” Clint tipped his head towards Bucky while he fastened the straps on his arm guard, “is going to scout the hallway and disable the alarm on the fire escape door.” Clint really, _really_ hoped there was going to be a fire escape door. “Once he gives the all clear, all of us are going to head out of here, nice and quiet.  As soon as you get to the street, if the cops aren’t already here -”

 Bucky interrupted softly, “They are.”

“You heard the man. As soon as you get to the street, head to the cops. They will take it from there. Got it?” Clint clipped the reserve quiver to his belt and swung the primary over his shoulder. “You're all going to get out of here just fine and back to your families. I promise. We’ve got this." He pasted on his cockiest grin, "We’re Avengers.”

  

* * *

 

Clint’s luck held out for him to make good on the promise.  Who was he kidding - it had nothing to do with lucky and everything to do with Bucky.  There had been an escape stairwell in the back hallway. Bucky had been able to disable the alarm.  All of the hostages played by the rules, and no one tried to be a hero.  

The same went for the second group found in the basement.  Using the same tactics as Bucky initially employed, it was nothing at all to incapacitate the guards. The hostages were released up the same, already cleared stairwell.

The third group, because Clint had been right - they had been split into three -  was being held in the center court of the mall, at the base of the Santa’s workshop.  This was, not so conveniently, also what was being used as the basis of criminal operations.   

From the best he could figure, given their vantage point almost four stories high in the rafters, the crew had broken off into teams of two. Each group disappearing into a storefront and reemerging a few minutes later, seemingly at random.  They had to be after petty cash or credit card numbers or who knew what. It didn’t matter.  Crime was crime, and you didn’t fuck with people at Christmas.

Clint shifted his weight over this balls of his feet where he was perched in a crouch on one of the wider catwalks, arms wrapping around the support wiring.  Bucky was stretched out next to him, tracking the motions of the men through the scope of his rifle. There wasn’t much they could do until they figured out the pattern or they would risk alerting the thieves.  Acting too soon wasn't a risk Clint was willing to take given the remaining hostages.

With nothing to _do_ with his hands, Clint was having trouble focusing through the riot of question swirling in his brain.

“How did you know where I was?” Clint hadn’t been meaning to ask, but the waiting was getting to him.

“Heard it on the scanner.”

“A police scanner?”

Bucky just grunted an affirmative, still following a pair of the men through the scope.

“Ok. So you heard about the break-in at the mall on the scanner, but how did you know I was here? At this mall specifically?”

 “Saw your note. Figured this is where you went.”

 “To _this_ mall?”

 Bucky sighed, “You wouldn’t have wanted to go all the way back to Jersey.”

 “Ok. Fair.” Clint could concede that. It was some hella detective work, but he could follow the logic. Didn’t mean that it was nearly enough of an answer. “Even assuming that you put together that I had gone to this mall,” Clint made a broad sweep of his hand to encompass the area around him, “and that there was this situation,” he flipped a wrist towards the malfeasance below, “you had no way of knowing I was in trouble.”

 That earned him a look. “You're always in trouble.”

 “Hey!” The insult was smoothed over by Bucky bumping his shoulder into Clint’s knee.  Clint grumbled but continued on. “Anyways... so you are telling me that you heard about the heist, figured I was still at the mall, just knew I was in trouble, and came for me?”

 Bucky’s only reply was to look back through the scope.

 “But how did you know _where_ I was in the mall?”

 Bucky sighed, pressing his face into his forearm and laying down the rifle. “You kept trying to get away from Kate yesterday - particular in the store with all the sweaters.  She was the only one you didn’t buy anything for, so I figured that when you said you were shopping it meant shopping for her.” Bucky didn’t lift his head, just continued to tick down his list, tone droll.  “This mall had the same store, so it was the logical place for you to go. Once I knew they were taking hostages, and I couldn’t find you, then that meant they had nabbed you too.  In a layout like this, the best place to keep them would be an empty store- limited access, only two exits, one easily blocked, the other easily guarded. It made tactical sense. That was the only empty store on the floor where you would be.”

 "Wowie.” Clint didn’t have an argument for any of that logic. “Yeah... okay then.”

 Clint really wanted to ask how Bucky had made it across the six mile span as quick as he had but decided against it. If it was anything like the rest of it, he probably didn’t want to know.  Clint had known Bucky was sharp, well-trained, but that… Clint didn’t have a word to adequately describe that.

 Bucky straightened the rifle back up onto its stand and went back to his surveillance.

 Clint managed to hold the silence at least another minute. It was just too much and he was bored.

“Keep your eyes peeled for Santa.”

Bucky didn't lower the rifle, but he did glance back over his shoulder at Clint. “What?”

“Keep an eye out for the Santa. You know the ones these places always set up in the center court for the kids. That's his throne.” Clint gestured towards the big red chair in the center of the winter wonderland.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“He’s the mastermind behind this.”

That got Bucky to lower the gun. “What?”

“The Mall Santa. He planned this. I guarantee it. It’s always the Mall Santa. He’s going to be our twelfth man.”

Bucky opened and closed his mouth, once, twice, and then a third time.  He looked back down toward the center court and then back at Clint.

“You mean _that_ Santa.”

Clint looked back down to the crowd below, and sure enough, trussed up with the rest of the hostages as a large, elderly gentleman sporting the traditional suit.  His wire-rimmed glassed had lost a lens and he looked as equally terrified as the rest of them.

“Maybe it's a ruse.”

Bucky looked downright incredulous.

Clint was saved from whatever was going to be said next, by a non-descript man stepping up onto the dais and whistling shrilly.  The teams of men still in the stores began to file towards the stage.

“Ok… maybe it’s not Santa.”

“Yah think?” The Brooklyn was heavily in his accent, the first time Clint had really noticed it.

 “Yeah, yeah. Well, I guess that’s our cue.”

 Bucky gave a nod, sat up to a crouch, and began to break down his rifle.  “You stay here. Pick off  the stragglers.”

 “And what exactly are you going to do.”

 Bucky glanced over at Clint like it was obvious.

 “I am **not** letting you take on twenty guys on your own.”

 “No choice.”

 Clint scoffed. “Of course we have a fucking choice.  We can pick them off from here, between you and I -”

 “Too many for that.  Too many variables.”

 “Ok. Fine. Then we come up with another plan. I am not letting you -”

 “Clint-” Bucky interrupted, gaze heavy and beseeching. “It will be fine. I trust you.”

 “I - da- na -” Clint just stuttered as Bucky unwound a length of paracord from his belt.  He tied it to the rafters, testing the knot, before letting it unfurl silently down. The length stretched a good twenty feet, but it would still be a hell of a drop the rest of the way to the floor.  

 He could only watch as Bucky looped the length around his left hand. “I’ll take as many as I can. You pick off the ones that I can’t reach.”

Clint gave a hard swallow. “I don’t think I like you making the plans.”

“Your plans suck.” Bucky snorted and shook his head. “Fuckin’ Santa…”

Clint ignored the jab. “Like this one is any better!?!”

Clint’s protest was ignored, Bucky busy counting and cataloging the men moving like ants beneath him one final time. His eyes were as hard as Clint has ever seen them.  It was enough to make Clint’s blood run cold.

“Which one hit you?”

Clint answered carefully, not sure what to do with the change in topic. “Why do you think it is one of them?”

“The two from the storage room had assault rifles. The damage on your face is from a pistol.”

Clint looked down, but didn’t answer, so Bucky repeated the question. “Which. one. hit. you?”

“I don’t know. It was quick and they caught me from behind.” It was half of a lie - Clint knew exactly which gunman it has been - but he didn’t trust the tone in which Bucky had posed the question.  Clint’s gut told him that to answer truthfully would promise violence and death.

Bucky frowned but accepted it. He drew a deep breath, eyes closing,  and as quickly as an exhale, it was no longer Bucky Barnes perched with Clint in the rafters. He was every bit the Winter Soldier.  

Clint nocked and arrow and took his own steadying breath.  It was showtime.

 

* * *

 

The fight had been quick but brutal; over as fast as the rest of it.  Clint had put arrows in six, but the rest… that had all been Bucky.  Clint corrected himself. No, not Bucky. The Winter Soldier.  

Clint had heard the stories and seen the reports.  Hell, he had even gotten a few of the details directly from Natasha after DC, but nothing could compare with seeing it in person. The soldier was a one-man strike team, not a single motion wasted, perfectly balanced and terrifyingly deadly.  

The zip of the line against metallic fingertips had zinged loudly across the cavernous space, causing several of the men to stop what they were doing and glance up.  In the space of the fall between when he had run out of rope and when his feet had slammed into the ground, Bucky had unsheathed a pair of knives. Clint’s heart stuttered at the thought of him having to put them to use.  If there was blood on Bucky's hands today, it would because Clint had put it there.

The first man was down for the count immediately, having had the poor fortune to stop directly beneath Bucky’s descent. He was born to the ground with the full weight and force of four stories.

A quick right hook took the next out in as rapid of a fashion. Bucky followed the motion to take the knees out from a third, slamming that man’s head into the faux tile flooring as he fell.  A fourth opened fire but wasn’t fast enough to track the movement as Bucky avoided the spray, ducking in and coming up past the muzzle to grab the strap of the weapon. One sharp yank and the man’s face met knee.  Bucky was a whirlwind; violence incarnate.

Clint could barely pull his eyes off of the action, never in all his years had he seen the like,  but he had a job to do. He used the distraction to put a shock arrow into the shoulder of one of the men still loitering on the upper floor and another into the knee of his companion.  Six down; eleven to go.

Clint upped his own count to four with an explosive arrow to the escalator.  Another pair had been trying to join the action; they hadn’t made it.  He would need to check with Tony about maybe covering the repair on that.  

Unable to help himself, Clint searched for Bucky in the melee. He wasn’t hard to spot.  Three more men were at his feet both bleeding heavily - one with a knife still embedded deep in his shoulder and another writhing about with his leg drawn to his chest.  Clint couldn’t tell what had happened to the other one, but he sure are shit wasn’t moving. None of their weapons were visible.

 Bucky had wrenched the gun from a fourth; a man Clint recognize. Wide-eyes was backing away, clearly terrified - worse off that he had been when Clint had first seen him earlier -  and trying to avoid the onslaught, hands held up as if in surrender. Without rushing, Bucky gave stalking chase. Clint watched as Bucky fisted his flesh hand in the man’s shirt hauling him close to snarl something into his face.  The man’s eyes went impossibly wider, head shaking, mouth a panicked oval.  Bucky seized ahold of the man’s right forearm in his left, metallic fingers closing brutally slow.  Clint didn’t need to hear the crunch of bone - the man’s agonize scream was more than enough - to know exactly what had happened.  

 So distracted by the show of raw violence, Clint almost missed another man lining up a shot from the cover of some plastic foliage.  He got a wickedly barbed arrow through his palm and a second shock tip to the gut for his trouble.

 Having discarded the mewling man, Bucky had taken cover.  Clint spotted three ducking into one of the store fronts and a fourth sprinting down the hallway in the other direction.

Clint whistled sharply and Bucky immediately glanced up.  Clint pointed in the direction of the store and held up three fingers. Bucky gave a sharp nod, vaulted the ledge he was hiding behind and gave chase while Clint lined up his shot to bring down the fourth and final man.

Job done, Clint grabbed up the rest of the gear and headed down towards the ground floor.

 By the time Clint made it, he had missed the rest of the action.  He had been close in his original estimate. There were twenty-one in all.  Most were wounded, but none of the mortally. Bucky had left every last one of them alive.

 They made quick work of securing the would-be-robbers, lining them all up in neat little rows on the dais with Santa’s sleigh.  Each was bound, hands tethered to foot to prevent the same trick Clint had used to escape and muzzled with tape - turnabout, after all, was fair play.  

 Clint glanced down at his watch, attempting to gauge the time it would take before the police stormed the mall.  The last group of freed hostages had no doubt made it out by now.  The best Clint could figure, they had maybe five more minutes. Tops.  He set himself a timer.

 “Why don’t you ever say my name?”

 There was no way he had heard that question correctly, no way Bucky would be wanting to talk about this here and now of all places.  Clint spun, fully prepared to ask Bucky to repeat the question, but was held mute at Bucky’s expression. He looked lost, uncertain, afraid - all traces of the Winter Soldier vanished.

 Clint had to answer but didn’t know how. “I don’t… I don’t know what to call you.”

 Bucky’s shoulders hunched in, folding in on himself, looking small despite the weapons and blood and warpaint. Clint had to fix it.

 “You never said, and I didn’t want to assume, and then so much time had passed and it just felt dumb to ask and…” Clint trailed off.  “I didn’t think it was my place, okay? I didn’t want to make that decision for you.”

 “You weren’t… ashamed of me?”

 “What? No!”  Clint’s vehement denial brought Bucky’s head back up. “No. Look-” Clint glanced away and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You were James Buchanan Barnes. Wore than name of twenty some odd years.  Hydra took that away; they took your name and gave you a new one, right?”

 Bucky didn’t answer, but it didn’t matter. The question what rhetorical.

 “They called you the Winter Soldier, and you carried that for damn near seventy years.  That isn’t who you are anymore, but the way I see it you might not be back to being Bucky Barnes either. It… it isn’t that simple.”

 Clint pushed at his hair, trying to swallow down all of the emotions that talking about this sort of shit stirred up long enough to get through it. “After New York,  I hated it when anyone called me Hawkeye. It was a lie, or at least it felt like one. That was who I had been, but Loki… he took that from me. Made the name something bad, regrettable.  When other people would say it, it just broke a little bit deeper. They weren’t trying to, but didn’t matter. It happened all the same. It took me a long time to come to grips with that, to decide if I wanted to take the name back.”

 Clint looked back at Bucky. If he was going to say it, he was going to say it to his face. “ I didn’t think it would be right for me to make the choice for you. You had to decide who you wanted to be, and I had to respect that choice.  I should have asked sooner, but I was never ashamed of you.  How could I be?  There was no way you should have been thinking that.”

 “James.”  

 The non-sequitur took Clint off guard.

 “If you want… you can call me James.”

 Bucky looked up to give him a small, still sad, smile. Clint couldn’t stop from returning it. “Ok. James it is then.”

 The small beep from Clint’s wrist let him know that time was up. “Go on. Get out of here. I’ll deal with the cops.”

 “They’re not going to believe that you did all of this on your own.”

 Clint scoffed, planting his hands on his hips while he faked the bravado - still reeling from the conversation. “Nah. Sure they will. I’m Hawkeye, after all.”

 Bucky just shook his head and looked away.  The pinched look was back around the corner of his eyes.

 “Hey.” Clint took a step forward, putting his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You did good today. Bowing out before the final curtain so you don’t get hauled off in chains isn’t going to change that. Go on. I’ve got this.  There will be some questions. Probably some yelling. Some of the witness statements are going to mention another man, but I can come up with a way to talk my way around that.  Play dumb enough times and people stop expecting you to get all the facts straight.”

 “You shouldn’t let them think that about you.”

 Clint shrugged, squeezing lightly. “Meh. What can I say, it’s what I do.”  Clint released Bucky, taking a step back. “Go on. Get.  Head back to the loft. I’ll be home in an hour. Two tops.”

 It was a lie, and Clint knew Bucky knew it. There was no way this was only going to take two hours.  He would be lucky to make it in by dawn.  

 The sound of footsteps thundered up the corridor. The cops had arrive.

 “Go on, James. Go.”

With one last, long look at Clint, Bucky turned and sprinted off down the opposite corridor.  Turning to face the oncoming S.W.A.T. team Clint plastered what he hoped would be a convincing smile on his face.

“Hi guys! So… I can explain….”


	7. Day Seven: The Blizzard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Seven: In which Clint spends time behind bars and Kate gives him something to think about.

The sun was long past up before they gave him his phone call.  Apparently, just saying that you are an Avenger is no longer adequate identification.  It was a good thing to know, but Clint couldn’t shake the feeling that Steve wouldn’t have spent twelve hours in lock-up due to a misunderstanding over identity.

The conversation with the S.W.A.T. guys the night before had not gone well.  Clint hadn’t even gotten to the introductions before he was face down on the tile floor and cuffed right along with the baddies.  It would nice if that had been the worst part of the evening; it wasn’t.

Clint didn’t have his wallet - must have left it in its little bowl by the door in his apartment - and the local PD was not willing to take his word that he was one of the good guys.  There was a bright side though; it made the whole night a little less of a waste since he wouldn’t have been able to get Kate’s gift even if things hadn’t gone straight to hell in a handbasket.  The lack of documentation, paired with his prints not pulling anything in the system, and the stock of unregistered weaponry found in, on, or around his person just sealed the deal.

Clint's problems compounded when every last one of the hostages gave a different description of events. Some said Clint was alone. Others gave count of two men. There were other still that said three or even four had been responsible for saving the day. Of course they would, that is the nature of fear, but it wasn’t doing anything to help Clint out of the pickle.  

It should have been a null point - the bad guys were sporting arrow wound for crying out loud, how much more of a calling card did a guy need - but the cops weren’t convinced it wasn’t just a job gone south, and Clint was part of the organization.  

Clint was adult enough to admit that he had probably made matters worse by a pathological inability to just keep his damn mouth shut, but it was what it was.  They didn’t have anything to charge him with and they could only hold him so long before submitting a crime or cutting him loose.

Now, here he was, staring at a dingy payphone, completely at a loss for what to do.  The smart thing would be to call Tony - or Nat.  They could be here in ten, get things handled just as fast, and he could be home by breakfast.  Maybe. His other choice would be to try to get in touch with Bucky.  That was the ridiculous one.  Clint had no contact numbers, no guarantee of where he would be, no nothing.  

Clint’s deliberation was broken up by the officer who had escorted him to the little phone booth banging open the door. “Hurry it up.”

“Kay.” Clint plastered on a huge smile. “Question.  If whomever I call doesn’t pick up, does that mean I get another one?”

“No.” The officer pulled the door back shut with a huff.

Clint pressed his face into the grungy glass.  This should be an easy choice; why the hell wasn’t it?  Fuck it. Why be smart? If he called his own house number maybe Bucky would be there and maybe he would answer. Worth a shot.

Grabbing the phone off the hook, Clint began to punch in the number.  He got six digits in before stopping and pressing down the hook.  Crap. Did it end in -42 or -24? Clint tapped the handset against his forehead in time to the _think think think_ mantra running through his brain. It was his own number; he should know this.

Officer Frowney-Face tapped against the glass impatiently.

Clint ignored him. _Think think think_. Crap. He no clue. Picking one at random, Clint dialed.  

The line rang. _Come on, pick up._  And rang. _Please, pick up._ And rang. _Pick up pick up pick up._

Just as the officer threw open the door on what had to be the twentieth ring, Clint heard a click. He would have thought the line had disconnected if it wasn’t for the crackling static in the silence.

“Time’s up. Come on.”

Clint threw his hand up, waving it in the face of the cop as he turned his back, hunching his body over the phone.

“Hey! It’s me!” More buzzing silence. “James? You there?” Clint pulled the headset away to stare at it, like he could see proof of the connection in its flat, almond-tinted surface.

“Barton?” The question was hesitant, but Clint knew that voice.

“Yes! Thank fuck.” Clint spun, shoving the cop back and yanking shut the door. “Yeah, its me. Listen -”

“Where the hell are you?!?” Clint had to jerk the handset back from his ear, Bucky’s voice barked through so loudly.

“Still with the cops. Everything is fine.” God, Clint hated lying to him,  “I just wanted to let you know that I was going to be a little later than I said I’d be. No biggie. Just some red tape.”

Bucky was quiet a long moment. “How bad is it?”

“No trouble at all. Still going over witness accounts.” Clint was going to hell.

“I should have stayed.”

“No. Absolutely not. Then we both would be stuck here and it might be an even deeper mess.”

The guard was tapping back on the glass. Clint put his hand over the mouthpiece, “Okay okay okay okay okay!”

Clint dropped his hand, speaking back softly into the phone. “I gotta go, my adoring public awaits,  but I just… I just wanted to let you know that everything was fine. This was the right call.  I’ll be back soon.”

There was another second of the static buzz, and then the line went cold.

“James? _James?_ ” The only answer was the beeping of a uncradled line.  Clint jiggled the hook. “James, you there?!?” No response; only the return of the dial tone. Great - so either the line disconnected or Bucky hung up on him.

“Call’s done.” The officer grabbed Clint by the back of the jacket, hauling him from the booth. Clint dropped the phone. It clanged down, bouncing off the partition walls and spinning erratically on the end of its cord.  The beeping of the line haunted Clint the whole way to holding.

 

* * *

 

Clint heard the cell door slide open, but he didn’t bother to open an eye. For the unending stretch of hours since the botched call he had been feigning sleep, slumped down on the bench with his booted feet propped against the wall. Thus far, no one had bothered him.

 “Barton.” Clint knew that voice. Officer Grumps was back. Fantastic. Except...

 Clint cracked an eye, “So now you’re willing to accept that’s my name.”

 “Come on.”

 “No thanks. Listen, pal. I’m not going anywhere. Not until my attorney shows up. That’s how this works.” Clint shut his eyes, folding his arms across his chest for emphasis.  It was moments like that he really wished he had his sunglasses. He could refuse to go, couldn’t he? He was pretty sure he had seen that on one of those procedural cop drama that Nat loved to pick apart.

 The guard took a step into the cell, pushing at Clint’s boots to send his feet thunking to the floor. Bending down, the cop leaned into Clint’s bubble, the smell of stale cigarette smoke thick on his breath.  “Your choice. Stay if you want but you’re free to go.”  The last bit was bitten off, forced and choked like the words tasted foul in his mouth.

 Clint eyes snapped back open and he plastered a huge smile across his face.  “Next time, lead with that.”  

 Clint jumped to his feet, slapping his hands against his thighs and then socking his fist softly into the officer’s meaty shoulder - last think he wanted was suddenly to be facing drummed up assault charges. 

 The cop grimaced, eyes tight and mouth a disapproving line, but he didn’t take the bait. Too bad. Instead, he turned to lumber out of the cell.  Clint followed him down the hall and out into the main processing area, whistling tunelessly, just because he could.

 As soon as Clint passed through the swinging doors he heard someone squeal his name.  He found the source just in time to catch an armful of Kate.  Well, that wasn’t quite true.  He hadn’t caught her at all; she had caught onto him.  She was clinging to him like a limpet, arms about his neck and legs wrapped about his waist with her face pressed to the crook of his neck.  

 Clint didn’t hesitate.  He wrapped his arms around her, rubbing his cheek to her hair.  She was a solid weight in his arms, strong and sturdy, and always felt so _so_ real - reminded him that he was too.

 With one last squeeze, she hopped down.

 “I heard about what happened! I came as quick as I could, but it is snowing something terrible and most of the roads have been blocked off.  Then we hit a stonewall trying to get the,” she pitched her voice, loudly, “ _good officers of Manhattan_ , to process the rest of your paperwork.”

“We?”

 “Ohh. Tony. I called him after -” She broke off, and looked around. Finding whatever she saw to her satisfaction, she leaned in closer, voice going quiet “-after your _friend_ showed up. Tony got it all worked out.”

 Clint didn’t know what to question first about that information- the fact that Bucky had gone to Katie, the fact that Tony had helped, or whatever the hell that eyebrow wiggle and emphasis on the word ‘friend’ meant.

 “Kate. Details. Please.”

 She huffed, blowing a chunk of hair from her eyes. “What do you think I was doing? Fine. I'll start again. So, I’m sitting there at home, minding my own business, trying not to think about the metric ton of snow falling outside my window. I walk into the kitchen to grab a drink, turn back around, and **bam** there he is standing in my kitchen. You know - _him_.” Again with the brow wiggle.  “No lie, Clint, that man is terrifying.”

 “Kate -”

 “So there he is, no coat, dripping with snow, saying he needs my help. No ‘Hi Kate. Good to see you again. Thanks for inviting me into your lovely home.’ Nope. None of that. He’s just looming there in the dark and telling me you were in jail and he needed me to fix it.

I didn’t know what to do, so I called Tony. He is who took care of the rest. He found the truck and sent the driver - “ She looked back over her shoulder and pointed at a man dressed in non-descript black standing by the precinct entrance, “I waited for the car while he made some calls - or I would assume had one of his lawyers make some calls. Maybe all of the lawyers. Long story short - all charges dropped.  Tony might be a lot of things, but he gets it done.”

 Kate’s brow furrowed down and she bit at her bottom lip. “There was something else… Ohh! Yeah. Thanks to the hell Tony raised over your incarceration there is some talk about you being issued a formal apology.  Bad press for the cops to arrest the guy who, you know, actually saved the day.”  

 Clint snorted. Yeah. That was what had happened. If she only knew.

 Misreading the reaction, Kate tossed out her arms and waggled hands like a bad stage magician, giving Clint a grin. “Ta-da! Kate saves the day.”

 Clint reached out to ruffle her hair. “You did good, Hawkeye.”

 She ducked out from under his touch and threw a left jab hard into his shoulder. “Tell me something I don’t know, Hawkeye.”

 “Mr. Barton?” a new female voice asked from behind him. Clint turned to look down a small woman dressed in neatly pressed police blues. “If you will come this way, we can get you signed out and return your possessions so you can be on your way.”

 Clint gave her a winning smile. “Lead on.”

  The rest of it didn’t take long at all - less than ten minutes to fill out the required forms and be handed the same duffle that Bucky had brought into battle and like that, Clint was free. Hell, it took longer to get everything stowed into the back of the Stark issued SUV that it took to outprocess.  Kate hadn’t been lying, it was snowing to beat the band - near whiteout blizzard conditions.

 Through the entire process, Kate had practically been vibrating next to him. Before climbing in, Clint reached over to toggle up the privacy divider - he knew what was coming.  The moment they slid into the back of the car, the dam burst.  

 “Oh. My. God. Clint! You have to tell me everything. Bucky - can I call him Bucky, should I call him Bucky?” She paused for a breath, thinking about the question, before pressing on, “He didn’t give me any details. Just said that you got yourself in trouble and he couldn’t get you out of it.  I don’t even know how he found my house, Clint? Or how he made it there? It is like twenty miles from your apartment. Twenty miles in this snow!”

 She paused to gesture out the window for emphasis. The SUV was still slowly making its way across the East River and towards Clint’s building.

 “He was panicked, Clint; I don’t know how else to describe it.  Pacing and snarling and I swear the entire time he was just one bad decision away from storming the police station by himself. I didn’t even get the details of what you were in for until after I called Stark - Tony is who told me about the craziness at the mall. He also -” some of the rampant enthusiasm bled from her voice “- He knows you weren’t alone Clint. I think he has a pretty good idea of what is going on.”

 Clint pinched the bridge of nose between his fingers. Of course he did. No one ever gave Stark enough credit, but he was as keyed into things at Nat when he wanted to be.

 “He tried to ask me what I knew about it, but I didn’t give it up.  I swear, Clint - not a word.” She laughed, a bit humorlessly.  “Not easy to do when the thing you are hiding is lurking over your shoulder eavesdropping on the conversation.” Her tone went soft. “I didn’t know what else to do, Clint. I’m sorry.”

 “No. You did fine. Calling Tony was the right thing to do - I can handle him.”

 Kate nodded and looked back out the window into the world of white.

 “He was awfully worried about you.”

 “Tony?”

 “No, Clint. Don’t be dense.”

 “Yeah… well…” Clint trailed off weakly.

 “What is going on between you and that man?  What I saw was _way_ above and beyond base level of concern. Not for something as typical as you being in jail.”

 “Nothing, Kate.  He’s just a friend. He pulled my ass out of the fire and was probably afraid it was all going to be for nothing.  He’s a good man, Kate. That’s it.”

 She hummed. “Alright. So you wouldn’t mind it if I made a run at him then?”

 “What?” Clint’s voice jumped at least two octaves.

 “If there isn’t anything there, and if he's as good of a guy as you make him out to be, then is it okay if I ask him out?”

 “ _Why The_ -” Clint cleared his throat, trying to modulate his pitch.  It wasn’t working. “Why would you want to do that?”

 She pulled a face like that was the dumbest thing Clint had ever said. “Have you looked at him? I don’t know what is sharper, the cheekbones or the jawline. Clint - his muscles have muscles, and that ass!” She whistled through her teeth, “Not to mention he has this whole ‘save me from my tortured past’ -”

 “He does have a tortured past! Textbook definition of one, in fact, Kate!”

 “- thing going for him.  Tragic, but seriously hot. I bet he would be really wild in the -”

 “Enough!” Clint’s voice was shrill, practically high enough to break glass, “That’s enough. He is not a piece of meat, Kate! He deserves better than -” Clint turned to look at her, wild-eyed.  

 She looked victorious. “I KNEW IT!”

 Oh…. so that had been a trap. Yeah. Of course it was. Clint hung his head, rubbing at his temples. “Kate…”

 “You do like him! Perfect! He is good for you.”

 Clint looked back up at her, “Made up your mind about him that quick?”

 “You didn’t see what I did today, Clint.  That man is gone on you. You just need to open up your eyes and see it.”

 Clint was saved from having to answer any additional questions by the SUV pulling to a halt in front of his building.  Clint slid from the seat, popping his collar against the wind and wildly swirling precipitation. He jogged to the back to pull retrieve the duffle, dropping it down on the sidewalk next to him, vaguely hoping it wouldn't get lost in the snow.  Kate was turned around backward in the seat, hanging over the back of it to continue their conversation.

 “Supposed to keep up like this the next two days or so. You have enough food to last?”

 “Yes, Kate. I think I can survive for forty-eight hours.”

 She hummed. “Two whole days. Locked up indoors, in close quarters, no company but each other. Maybe the power will go out and you will have to cuddle for warm-”

 Clint slammed the back hatch of the SUV, effectively silencing her. He scrubbed his hands over his face. Teasing aside, she did have a point.  If the weather was going to be as bad as she made it out to be, then he very well might be in a world of trouble.  No point in dwelling on it now; he would just deal with it as it came.

 Clint stepped away from the SUV, intending to give it room to leave, and backed right into the solid wall of another body.  A set of hands caught his hips, keeping him from falling right back into the car, and it was unsettling how the breadth of body and grip was familiar.

 “We have got to stop meeting like this,” Clint quipped as Bucky spun him around.  Clint underwent the same thorough head to toe investigation as he had undergone yesterday. “I’m fine.”

 “What?”

 Clint pitched his voice louder over the wind. “I said, I’m fine!”

 “They --n’t ------- ---face!”

 “What?” Clint was reading Bucky’s lips more than he was hearing the words. It was a dangerous thing to be fixated on.

 Bucky tried again, enunciating more carefully. “They didn’t treat your face!”

 Clint reached up to gently press his fingers against the cut.  He just shrugged, wasn’t like he hadn’t had way worse.

 Bucky frowned at that. He stepped back and grabbed the bag. “Come on. You need --- bandage ---!”

 He turned to stomp back towards the front stoop.  The snow was dense enough that even after only a few feet Bucky was almost fully concealed in the swirling white.

 With Bucky distracted, Clint had a brilliant idea.  He quickly slid a handful of snow off of the back step of the SUV, compacting it into a tight little ball.

 “James!” No response, the wind carrying away the words. “ ** _James!_** ” Clint tried again, but Bucky was still walking.  Clint pursed his lips and gave a sharp, shrill whistle.  Bucky paused and - bingo! - turned back at the noise.

 Clint’s snowball struck true, exploding against the side of Bucky’s face.  Clint whooped in victory, fist pumping the air.  “Finally! Score one for Hawkeye! Did you see that! I - umph.”

 The words were cut off when Bucky stalked back over and scooped Clint up over his right shoulder.  From this vantage point Clint had a view of the duffle still clutched in Bucky’s left hand and the aforementioned ass. Kate wasn’t lying; it was a thing of beauty. _Get it together, Barton_. _Priorities_.

 “Hey!” Clint pushing against Bucky, squirming in an effort to shimmy down.

“Hold still.” The order was punctuated by Bucky’s hand wrapping around high on the back of Clint’s thigh, pressing the leg more firmly against his chest. Clint could feel the heat of each individual fingertip where they were gripped, the highest not even an inch beneath the gusset of his jeans. Clint complied.

 As Bucky stomped up the stoop, Clint looked back up, intending to make sure Kate had made it off OK. Praying that she had so there wouldn’t be another witness to the spectacle.  The SUV was still idling at the curb. Tipping higher, Kate came into view and Clint immediately regretted all of the choices he had made in his life that lead him to this very moment. She was hanging out the side window, grinning like a maniac, and giving him two thumbs up.  

 Clint dropped his head back down, letting his forehead rest against Bucky’s back. Who needed enemies when you had friends like these.

 

* * *

 

Clint was exhausted, body rebelling against the adrenaline crash and lingering fatigue from the day prior; knew he should sleep, but all he could do was stare at the ceiling.  

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t silence the thoughts rioting in his brain.  The bite of the zip cuffs on his wrist. The breath of the cop insisting that Clint was a liar. The weight of Kate in his arms. The press of the porcelain beneath him while he sat on the tub and Bucky ever so carefully butterfly bandaged the cut to his face.

 Kate’s words.  
_One bad decision from coming for you One bad decision from coming for you One bad decision from coming for you_

 Clint rolled over onto his side. The view of the wall was no better distraction than the ceiling.  The thunk of metal fist to flesh. The twang of his bowstring. The clink of the cell bars. The sound of Bucky eating quietly next to him on the couch.

 Kate’s words.  
_You didn’t see what I did today You didn’t see what I did today You didn’t see what I did today_

 Clint flipped to the other side, bunching the quilt up before him.  Bucky’s first smile in the woods. The laugh in the park. The touch at the rink. Teasing Kate. Petting his dog.

Kate's words.  
_Open your eyes and see it Open your eyes and see it Open your eyes and see it_

 With a huff, Clint rolled onto his stomach, jarring the dog asleep on the foot of his bed sharply in the process.  Kate was young.  She wanted to see the romance of the world, willfully overlooking reality to be in love the idea of love.  There was nothing wrong with that; Clint envied her for it, but it wasn’t applicable here.  Not in his life.

 There was a creak and a shuffle from below and then soft footfalls on the stairs.  Clint picked up his head to look over his shoulder, just barely making out Bucky’s inky outline on the top of the landing.  

 “Go to sleep.” Bucky’s voice was rough, sleep worn.

 Clint huffed, burying his face back into the pillow. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

 “ _Not_ sleeping.”

 “I’m trying.”

 “Try harder.”

 Clint snorted. “I’m not bothering you.”

 “Not true. You are flopping around up here like a dying fish. I’m pretty sure the neighbors know you aren’t sleeping.”

 “Pfft.”

 “Articulate as always.”  Bucky came further in from the stairs, stopping near the edge of the bed.  Clint could feel the thump thump thump of Lucky’s tail due to Bucky’s change in proximity. Though Clint couldn’t see it, he was sure Bucky was petting the dog.

 Clint rolled back over to face Bucky with a huff, balling his pillow up and fluffing it harshly before he flopped down. Finding the room suddenly too warm for comfort, he shifted beneath the quilt, kicking a leg free and curling it over the top of the blanket to burrow into Lucky’s fur. It _absolutely_ wasn’t intended to bring him just a little closer to Bucky. Not at all; he was warm, damn it.

 “Sorry, “ Clint grumbled, suddenly so much sleepier than he had been before Bucky’s arrival. “I’ll try to keep it down.”

 There was a cold press of metal against the twist of Clint ankle.  Clint tensed, unsure of the contact, but soon enough realized what it had to be. With a hum of contentment, Clint pushed into the touch, movement serving double duty to allow for more of Lucky’s soft fur against his toes and Bucky’s strength against his leg.

 “You alright?” The question was soft, all grumble and bluster gone.

 “Yeah, man. Just been a long day.”

 “You need to sleep.”  Bucky’s hand remained in place, cool metal warming against Clint’s skin.  It made Clint wonder if it was cool all the way up or if it gradiated to body temperature at the shoulder.

 “Don’t know. Never thought about it.”

 “Huh.” _Huh._ Clint hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud. He made a point to stay silent after that, counting the heartbeats thudding in his ears and lulled by the soft, reassuring pressure of Bucky’s hand on his ankle.

 Clint must have dozed, slipping into sleep between one breath and the next, but he jerked back to semi-wakefulness at the creak of a floorboard.  With a whine, he pushed his foot back out towards the edge of the bed, searching for the lost contact.  

 “Don’t go.” It was a terrible thing to ask, selfish and unfair, but there it was.

 Bucky moved away from the bed, heading back down the stairs.  Shit.  Mounting horror shook off the remaining dredges of sleep. Now Clint had done it. Of course he had to open his big mouth and ruin it.  Everyone always said he pushed people away but this was exactly why. The one damn time he asks for something -

 The self-flagellation was interrupted but the sounds of Bucky coming back up the stairs.  Clint propped himself up to face him head on. If this was going to go down in flames, Clint was doing it with a little dignity.  

 Bucky came into view, tugging the same long sleeve tee he had been sleeping in all week the rest of the way on.  Clint caught just a flash of hip and ridge of ab in the soft illumination from a passing light from the city. In Bucky’ other hand, was the pillow he had been using on the couch.

 “Shove over.”

 Twice in one day, Clint did exactly as he was told - no arguing, no wheedling, no joking - straight up acceptance.  

 Bucky sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, setting the pillow against the headboard.  Clint watched, slack-jawed, as Bucky gathered his hair back in his hands, slipping a black band from his wrist to bind it back, easy as you please.  The hair wasn’t quite long enough to be held in place, and by the time Bucky shifted around, kicking his feet up on top of the quilt and sitting back to prop against the headboard, tendrils were already escaping the confines to brush against his face.

 Clint settled back down on his back, body tense and rigid.  He had no point of reference for how to deal with this.  The people who ended up in his bed were never there for… whatever the hell this was.  He stared up at the ceiling, hands clenched at his sides, trying to not look up and over to Bucky’s profile.

 Feeling ridiculous, Clint rolled, giving Bucky his back. This might be worse.  At least when he was on his back, Clint could see him.  Now, everything was left to the rest of Clint’s senses and his wildly overactive imagination.

 He lay there, long minutes in the dark and quiet.  Best Clint could tell, Bucky was still sitting just as he had been, arms folded across his chest, breaths slow and heavy and deep. He seemed completely unaffected by whatever influx of emotion Clint was undergoing.   It was a sobering thought.  Bucky should be the one finding this crazy, not Clint.   If Bucky was offering something, even just a few blessed moments of companionship, something that Clint was adult enough to admit he so desperately wanted, why the hell was he being so obstinate in accepting it?

 _Get it together, Barton_.

 Clint inchwormed back, scooting until he could feel the side of Bucky’s hip press into him.  Clint drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, the tension that had been lingering in his bones melting out at the one small point of contact.  He was already sunk. Might as well enjoy it.

 “James?”

 “Yeah?”

 “Thanks for getting Kate.”

 Bucky didn’t have a response to that. He simply shifted, bring more of his side in contact with Clint’s back. It was the safest Clint had felt in years.

 “Go to sleep, Hawkeye.”

 Clint smothered a yawn into his pillow. “So bossy.”

 Bucky flicked Clint’s ear; Clint half-heartedly swatted at his hand.

 “Go to sleep, Clint.”

 “Mmmkay.” The last thing Clint could remember before sleep pulled him back under was the sensation of Bucky’s fingertips tracing ever so slightly across the shell of his ear.  


	8. Day Eight: Stockings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Eight: In which Clint helps with some maintenance and Bucky steals cable.

The window slid open and Bucky stepped through, shedding snow and ice across the loft floor.  He sloughed off his jacket, dropping it into a sodden pile at his feet.  Bending, he pressed back against the glass and began to unlace his boots - water dripping liberally from his unbound hair.

Clint huddled against the counter, cradling the mug closer to his chest and trying really, really hard to keep it together.  From the moment he had woken up that morning, he had been an escalating emotional disaster, the events of the morning running through his head on a loop.

When he had woken up that morning to the buzz of the alarm, Clint hadn’t wanted to open his eyes. Not for any of the normal reasons; it wasn’t laziness or lingering exhaustion that was tethering him to the bed. Not this time. In the half-light, Clint had felt safe, secure - face pressed against his pillow and body curled tight around the solid mass of his blankets, comforting pressure on his side anchoring him to their warmth.

Clint had ignored the beeping of the alarm, sighing contentedly and had nestling deeper into the bed.  He remembered snuffling the flat of his face into the pillow and letting his nose bounce over the ridges of rib.

Then the realization had struck. Ribs. His pillow had ribs.

Clint’s eyes had flown open, showing him an up close and personal view of heathered lavender fabric. His sheets weren’t purple, they were blue.

The night before had come roaring back, crashing over Clint in a wave. Trying to squelch the rising panic, Clint had taken stock of their position.  That decision only made things worse.  Bucky had still been slouched against the headboard, just as he had been in the dark of night, only now Clint was spread over him - face pressed to Bucky’s side, hand fisted in Bucky’s shirt, leg drawn up to drape over Bucky’s thighs.

Clint remembered trying to scoot back and disentangle himself, but the weight on his side had tightened, holding him in place.  Clint had craned his neck to look down the length of his body, just spotting the edge of Bucky’s hand where it was spanning his ribs.

Bucky had reached up with his free hand, scrubbing it over his face, and then rolled, practically caging Clint’s body between his and the bed, to slap at the alarm.  The moment the noise cut out, Bucky rolled back over, squeezed Clint’s side lightly, swung his feet off the edge of the bed and padded to the bathroom.  

That was it. No talk. No “Thanks, but no Thanks.” No “See yah around, Hawkeye”. No “Let’s not let that happen again.”  Nothing.

Clint had rolled onto his back, starfishing across the bed and had tried not to hyperventilate when Bucky reemerged from the bathroom and had padded down the stairs.

“You want anything to eat?”  The question was deep, voice gravelly with sleep and it had heat pooling low in Clint’s gut.

Clint managed to find his voice, “Nah. I’m good, thanks.”

Bucky had only huffed in response, and Clint had heard the rustle of cabinet and cutlery start-up in the kitchen below.  Bucky hadn’t been acting like anything in the world had changed. Clint couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He had tried to ignore the need to talk about it, going downstairs and going about his own routine, but the weight of the need to say something was oppressive.  To make matters worse, just when Clint had worked up the courage, Bucky had up and vanished again, leaving Clint alone with his own spiraling thoughts.  

Which brought Clint to the now; now, Bucky was back and Clint was no closer to being mature enough to act like it hadn’t mattered.  Should he go for normal - like nothing had happened? That he hadn’t asked Bucky to stay? That the nonchalance of the morning wasn’t blowing his mind?

Bucky toed off the loosened boots and squished his way across the floor to his duffle, leaving wet footprints in his wake. He crouched down to rummage through the bag and Clint watched a bead of water form against Bucky’s jeans, pressed out against the strain in the fabric.  

Should he apologize? Tell Bucky that it would never happen again? That it was a moment of weakness never to be repeated again?

Bucky stood, jarring loose the droplet to run down the length of his leg and splatter against the floor with a soft ‘ploop’.

Should he ask what the hell Bucky had been doing to get so damned wet?

Indifferent to Clint’s indecision, Bucky braced a hand against the couch and stood on one leg to pull off a sock.  He pivoted and repeated the motion with the other and dropped them both to the floor with as little care as he had given his jacket. Bucky proceeded to scoop up the  pile of clothing that he had liberated from the bag.

As he turned from the couch - and just as Clint had worked up enough nerve to say something, _anything_ \- Bucky’s free hand came up to fumble at the clasp of his jeans.

Clint barely heard the scratch of the zipper over his own rapidly accelerating heartbeat. What fresh hell was this?

Bucky walked towards the stairs, making it halfway before he intentionally stepped on the hem of one pant leg with the opposite foot, sending the jeans sliding down and off his hips.  Without breaking stride, Bucky stepped out of first one leg and then the other, leaving them where they lay across the floor.

The tight, dark trunks revealed left nothing to Clint’s imagination.  There was a hole just beneath the waistband playing peek-a-boo with the tail of Bucky’s tee, each step up the stairs raising the shirt just enough to show the pale oval of skin. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the frayed hem of each leg had rolled up crookedly, unable to adequately maintain their stretch over impossibly thick thighs.

Clint’s grip on the coffee cup was tight enough to crack the ceramic.

Just as his feet disappeared completely from view, Bucky’s shirt landed haphazardly on the handrailing. It made a slow, stuttering trip down the metal bar and Clint’s eyes tracked every inch.  The tee had almost reached the bottom, stopping just shy of the last step, before it tipped drunkenly off to one side and slithered down with a splat to the floor.

Clint slid down the cabinets to sit down heavily in perfect time to the slamming of the bathroom door.  What the hell was he supposed to do with _that?_

 

* * *

 

Clint was still sitting on the floor - his coffee long gone cold - when Bucky padded back down the stairs fresh from the shower and sporting clean clothes.  He made a beeline straight to the thermostat, cranking the heat up several notches higher.

 Satisfied with the change, he walked towards Clint.

 “What are you doing?”

 “Ummm-” Good answer, Barton.

 Bucky frowned, face pulling tight. “Something wrong?”

 “No. Nothing’s wrong,” Clint answered a smidge too quickly to be believable with a hasty shake of his head. “Just felt like sitting.”

 Bucky’s frown didn’t diminish, but his attention was pulled from the lie when his arm gave a spasmodic tic.  He reached up with his flesh hand to press against the metal shoulder, just as it gave another violent shudder, plates grinding ominously.

 “Is that ok?”  Clint’s own  problems were immediately forgotten, washed away by concern for the other man.

 Bucky’s mouth twisted, “Yeah. Just needs maintenance. I could do it, but haven’t got the tools.”

 “Tools. I’ve got tools.”

 “It’s not your normal stuff.”

 “No, seriously.” Clint stood from the cabinets, setting his mug down on the counter and walking over to the bookshelf to pull a mid-sized black tupperware tub from the bottom row. He carried it over to the coffee table, setting it down gently. “I’ve got tools.”

 Bucky walked over just as Clint pulled the lid off with a flourish.  Inside was an array fit for an engineer.  Bucky looked back up at Clint in question.

 “What? Sometimes I like to make my own arrows.”

 Bucky looked back down into the jumbled mess of the tub and shifted some of the items around. “This might actually work.”

 “Awesome. Well, there you go. Merry Christmas.”

  Bucky didn’t respond, just fished through the contents, gathering a small array and laying the items in a neat row across the battered surface of the table.  Satisfied, he moved the tub to the floor and crossed to sit down on the couch.   He shoved the short sleeve of the tee up, bunching it around the swell of his shoulder and putting more of the arm on display than he ever had before.

 He had started on his wrist and then up his forearm and around the elbow. It was slow, meticulous work, but beyond fascinating.  Bucky methodically removed plates, checked internal connections, made the most minute of adjustments, and put everything back as pristine as it had been before.  Clint had no doubt that Tony would give his own right arm for a chance to fiddle with the technology.

 Bucky had just clicked back in the plate still barely depicting the center of the crimson star when he turned to look up at Clint.  They were _way_ closer together than Clint had realized.  He knew he had started out by the arm of the couch, and that he had scooted closer to get a better view, but Clint couldn’t pinpoint the exact minute he had perched himself up on the back of the couch to reach his preferred vantage point.

 Bucky was looking up at him, gaze heavy beneath the fringe of dark lashes.

 “You said you built your own arrows.”

 “Yeah, some of them. I’m no Stark, but I can get it done.”

 Bucky looked away from Clint.

 “I need you to check the top connections. I can’t reach them on my own.”

 “Woah. Yeah. Little things that go boom is _way_ different that what you’ve got going on here. I don’t think -”

 “You can do it. I can walk you through it, but they need to be done.” His voice softened and Clint would have sworn it dropped almost a full octave deeper.  “I need you to do it, Clint.”

 Clint swallowed heavily. “Okay. Yeah. I can try. Just tell me what I need to do.”

Before Clint could wrap his brain about his mouth’s freely given agreement, Bucky stood, stripping the shirt off over his head.  He took a step to the side, planted a hand on Clint’s knees and shoved at Clint’s leg to create a wider vee.  With no preamble Bucky dropped back to the couch, settling into the space between Clint’s spread thighs, back pressed against the full length of Clint’s right leg to position the metal shoulder for the easiest access.

 Clint wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, where to put his hands, or, hell, where he was allowed to look.  Even in light whatever the that had been earlier this morning, this was an ungodly amount of hard, smooth skin on display.  Each and every turn of muscle stood out in stark relief less than inches from Clint’s fingertips and it had Clint’s blood running hot beneath his skin.  

 Clint looked up to the ceiling, counting backwards from ten.  He could do this. Bucky needed help and Clint could damn well keep his libido in check long enough to get it handled.  Ignoring the voice in his head calling him a liar, he got ready to get to work.

 At first glance, the plates simulating the top of the deltoid looked the same as the rest. This would be fine. Clint could handle this; it would be no different than servicing his bow.  It wasn’t until his eyes made it to the junction of man and machinery that Clint realized how incredibly wrong that was.

 The seam where metal met flesh was a horror show.  The prosthetic abutted into skin against a thick, pale line of bloodless scar tissue not all that different from any surgical scar. It was the barbarity in the radiating gouges and channels carved into the flesh like a child’s poorly drawn attempt at the sun that had fury spiking in Clint’s chest.  Frankenstein had shown more care in the creation of his monster than whatever butcher had been set loose to forge this attachment.

 The space between each gashing line was a gradation of puckered scar tissue. Grazing his fingertips over the worst of the damage, Clint wracked his brain trying to come up with what could have possibly left behind the mottled melted flesh. Melted.  The word sparked his own memory of cigarettes snuffed out against young flesh and provided the answer.  Fire. The bastards hadn’t even tried to close the wounds, choosing the quick and dirty route of mass cauterization.

 As he traced along each ridge and valley, the anger grew, a widening gyre of outrage.  The pain would have been unfathomable, unbearable, dark and deep - any other man would have drowned beneath the waves.

 Clint grit his teeth and his fingers itched for his bowstring.Though the original perpetrators were no doubt long since dead, there was surely one bastard or two still in the wind, someone who would made an apt surrogate for the blame.  

 It wasn’t until Bucky shifted ever so slightly beneath his touch that Clint realized what he had been doing. He jerked his hand back and curling his fingers into a fist, an apology on the tip of his tongue.

 “‘s fine. Can’t really feel it.” Bucky wasn’t watching him, face expressionless.  

 Clint cleared his throat, shaking off the useless rage.  He couldn’t fix the past, knew that all too well, but today, well, today he could do something about.  He carefully unclenched his fingers to lay his hand gently against the seem and leaned down over Bucky to snatch a pick from the tabletop.

  “Where do we start?”

 

* * *

 

Clint snapped the final plate covering the apex of Bucky’s shoulder into place. “All done.”

 Bucky rolled his shoulder a few times, clenching and unclenching his hand.  “That’s good. Thanks.”

 Clint settled against the wall, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.  He set the sauder pick next to his leg on the back of the couch and rubbed his hands against his jean clad thighs, drying palms gone clammy.  It wasn’t until he tried to pick back up the slender tool that he realized his hands were trembling.  

 To cover the reaction, he stretched his arms up over his head,  leaning away to give Bucky enough room to stand if he wanted to. Instead of taking the invitation, Bucky just turned, presenting the full span of his back, shoulders bumping into Clint’s knees and knocking them even wider.  Bucky set his arm back against the table and hunched forward, picking up the tools and starting in with the hand.

 The plates here were smaller, the connections impossibly more delicate, and Bucky was hunkered down close.  Every few seconds he would pause to shove at his hair, where it was falling foward to obscure his vision.  After the fifth or so effort, Bucky set down the small screwdriver and hastily pulled back the offending mass, binding it with the black elastic ever present at his wrist.

 It wasn’t working any better now than it had been the night prior.  The moment Bucky bent back to resume his work, the most problematic pieces framing his face slipped free to fall right back into his field of vision.

 “I can fix that.”

 Bucky looked back over his shoulder towards Clint, scowl on his face.

“Not cut it! But, keep it back - if it’s bothering you, that is.” The longer Bucky watched him, the more ridiculous Clint felt for even asking. “Really. I learned back when I was with the circus - haven’t done it in years, but could probably remember…. or not! Hey, that’s fine too.”

 Bucky set down the tools again with a huff, and yanked the band from his hair with enough force that Clint winced in projected sympathy.  Even as the hair was falling, Bucky settled back deeper against Clint.  

 Taking it as permission, Clint brought his hands down, gently carding them through the strands. The air was heavy with the intimacy of the moment; rather than deal with the pressure against his heart, Clint began to talk.

 “For the performances, they always like to leave the girl’s hair loose - or just back in a ponytail, yah know.  More impressive that way; made the movements seem bigger, faster, that sort of thing.  But for practice, well, no one ever liked to deal with it in practice.”

 Content he had finger combed loose the few snarls he could find, Clint gentled tipped Bucky’s forehead back towards him.  Bucky moved willingly into the touch, and Clint could just see the sliver of blue where Bucky was watching him.

 “It was dangerous - all that loose hair - particularly for the aerial girls.  The silks and the trapeze - that sort of thing. Easy to get caught.” Clint divided the hair at the crown of Bucky’s head into threes and began to plait. “So the rest of us without that particular problem, well the girl’s made sure we learned.  They always said that it was because their arms would get tired, holding them up to do the braids on their own, but I think they just liked the attention.”

 Clint tipped his chin down pressing it to his chest, and Bucky took the hint to mimic the motion. Clint resumed the rhythmic tug and slide as he added to the sections.

 “There wasn’t much..” Clint searched for the right word, “ _softness_ around - you were surrounded by people, sure, but for as much as you were a troop, everyone still had to look out for themselves, first and foremost. Only way to survive.  Anytime you could create the illusion of stability, normalcy, well, you took it.”

 “So you learned to braid hair?” The question was quiet, full of understanding.

 “So I learned to braid hair.”  

 Unhappy with the section he had just done, Clint backed out several inches of the braid.  Starting the unwound bit back over, he lapsed into quiet, concentrating on the task.  He almost had it just right when -

“Did you celebrate Christmas?”

 The question after the silence started Clint just enough to cause him to drop the reworked section of the braid.  He carefully unwound the bit let loose, again, by the blunder and started again.

 “Kind of - but it wasn’t really Christmas in the traditional sense.  Too many different types of people, too many different religions, too much time on the road.  But yeah, there was definitely a celebration. Any excuse to revel and drink, yah know?”

 “I can’t remember a _solid_ memory of a Christmas.” Bucky paused, mouth working over his displeasure at the word choice. “I have these bits, but I can’t piece them together to form a whole.  It hurts when I try…” Clint stopped braiding, leaning sideways just enough to see that even though Bucky had pinched shut his eyes, his expression didn’t look pained.

“I can remember Ma laughing in the kitchen and the smell of molasses cookies.  And Becca with Steve. She’s ruffling his hair and thanking him for a sketch of a spot in the park she liked so much and he is blushing brighter than the red in her dress.  And…” Bucky’s head tipped just a bit to side, mouth pursing, “Steve laughing, tugging down an old set of socks that had been hung over the radiator, tellin’ me they were a poor excuse for stockings.  It made me laugh, I think… and I then told him that Christmas wasn’t Christmas without stockings.”

 Bucky sighed and opened his eyes, so Clint resumed the braiding. This was way outside of his wheelhouse.  

 Without preamble, Bucky jerked his head to look around the room, and would have pulled the hair from Clint’s hands if Clint hadn’t pitched forward quick enough to follow the motion.

 “Sit still.”

 “Sorry.” Bucky muttered the apology and settled his weight back against Clint’s legs, resting a hand on the top of Clint’s foot. “Why don’t you have any stockings?”

 “No place to put them. I don’t have a fireplace.”

 “Hmmm.”  

 Clint crossed the final section - the braid not even quite making it to the nape of Bucky’s neck.  He held the little nub of a tail in his finger, refusing to be distracted by the soft bit of skin, and stretched his other hand out over Bucky’s shoulder snapping his fingers. “Band, please.”

 Bucky complied, passing it to Clint’s waiting fingers. “Doesn’t seem like Christmas without stockings.”

 Clint huffed out out a laugh, “That's where you draw the line over what feels like Christmas?”

 Wrapping the stretched out elastic around the end of his braid Clint couldn’t help but add, “You know, these would last a hell of alot longer if you didn’t stretch them out so bad by trying to wear them like a bracelet.” Finished, Clint leaned away just far enough to survey his work. “Alright. Done. Whatcha think?”

Clint pulled his hands back and watched as Bucky stood, walking over to crouch down in front of the television to catch his reflection in the surface. His tipped his head from side to side, catching different angles of the view.

 “That works. Thanks.”

 “No problem.”

 Bucky walked back over towards the couch, grabbed the discarded tee from the tabletop and before Clint could tell him to be careful, tugged it back over his head.

 “Ahh, man…. Next time you want to change your clothes, you gotta do that _before_ I braid it.”

 As Bucky came around the table, Clint surveyed the damage.  A few little strands had been knocked free, but nothing serious enough to warrant a complete redo.  As soon as Bucky was close enough, Clint reached out, smoothing an errant wisp back to tuck behind Bucky’s ear.  The touch was a mistake.  The entire atmosphere of the room changed, time going slow and the air heavy.

 Soft as a feather, Clint traced his thumb against the slash of cheekbone, heart giving a painful stutter when Bucky’s eyes fluttered to half mast.  He could only watch as Bucky brought his own hand to encircle Clint’s wrist. Rather than push Clint away he leaned into the touch.

 They stood like that, held at the two points of contact, stuck in the moment between the tick and the tock.  

 Bucky searched Clint’s face, catching the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth.  Clint gave into the temptation, letting his thumb span down, pressing against the edge of the bite, Bucky’s breath shallow and hot across his --

 There was a slam of a door down the hallway, and the thud of small feet and the giggle of children racing down the hallway.  Alerted by the noise, Lucky jumped up from where he had been dozing beneath the stairs.  He barked once, bounding around in a tight circle and over to the door, looking back at Clint and wiggling animatedly.

 Whatever the moment might have been building towards was lost.

 “That’s my cue.”

 Bucky stepped back and away, giving Clint room to stand.  Clint stepped down off of the couch and onto the floor, staggering slightly at the change in position, steadied only Bucky’s hand against his arm.  

 By the time Clint had made it to the door, pulled on his boots, and clipped the lead to Lucky’s collar, Bucky was already back on the couch, hunched over working on his hand.

 “I’m going to take him around the block.  Be back in thirty.”

 “Be careful.” Bucky didn’t look up.

 “Pfft. What do you take me for?”

 Clint could see just enough of his face to catch the quirk of his brow. “You.”

 Clint grinned checkily and tossed him a quick two-finger salute before heading out the door.

 Maybe he could do this after all; maybe things did get a hell of alot easier when he just stopped actively trying to make them difficult. Huh. What do yah know.  How about that for character development?

 

* * *

 

Clint pushed open the front door, letting Lucky charge into the room before him.  The walk had done them both good - the air brisk and the world still clean and white.  As soon as he entered, Clint immediately noticed that in the short time he was gone, three things had changed.

 The first was that his TV was on and quietly playing some Christmas movie Clint was ninety-two percent certain he didn’t have in his DVD collection.

 The second was that Bucky had finished the work on his hand and had replaced the tub in its proper home on the shelf.

 The third was that there was a pair of items carefully hung against the bannister running up the stairs.  They were each affixed to a cross joint in the railing by a length of black paracord.   Unless Clint was mistaken, the first was the spare quiver he had pulled out during his roof top exhibitionist phase.  

 The other item was smaller. Not quite a foot in length and loosely sealed at the top with an elastic bungee. It also sported the modular webbing all down the front so favored in the design of all things tactical.  It wasn’t until Clint moved closer to inspect it did he recognize it.  The little bag was a mag pouch, specifically designed to hold a M16 magazine, unless Clint was mistaken.

 Ok. So he knew what they were. Didn’t explain what they were doing hanging there.  Clint looked back over at Bucky, but he was pointedly staring at the television, refusing to make eye contact.   In his periphery, Clint could just make out the action of the movie.  A man and woman were standing in front of a crackling fireplace arguing animatedly.  The woman reached out and rearranged the order of the decorations on the mantle.  The man rearranged them back, knocking a stocking loose and sending it tumbling into the fire in the process.

 Stockings.  Earlier, Bucky had specifically asked about stockings.

  Clint’s head snapped back to the pouch and quiver.  He had made stockings.  Clint reached out hesitant fingertips to slide down the familiar leather and then over to skip across fresh nylon.

 Stepping away from the bannister, Clint cleared his throat in an attempt  to dislodge the lump that had taken up residence there. He rubbed at his neck, trailing down to tap against the tightness in his chest.  

  _You’re in over your head, Barton_.  

 With one last look, he walked towards the couch.  He needed to say something - had been needing to say something for days -  but he didn’t know where to start.

 “James -” Bucky looked over to Clint, expression open, and the words tied on Clint’s tongue. _Coward_. Clint broke eye contact, biting on the distraction offered by the television. Clint just stood there, staring unseeingly the show until it broke off for a commercial break, trying to figure out what the hell it even was that he wanted to say.

 Wait, what? Commercial?

 “Is this cable?”

 Bucky grunted an affirmative, busy moving over to the center of the couch to make room for the dog.

 “But I don’t have cable.”

 Bucky didn’t respond.

 “How do I have cable?”

 “I fixed it.”

 “Fixed it-” Clint trailed off thinking about earlier in the morning.  The disappearance, the window, the snow, the wet, the skin... Clint shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the snowballing cascade of images and stay on track. “Is that what you were doing outside? You were splicing into the cable?!? How do you even know how to do that?”

 Bucky looked over at Clint, mouth twisted to the side, “Why wouldn’t I know how to do that?”

 Clint’s eyes went wide and he bobbed his head, “Well… because… how…”. Giving up on finding the right follow-up, Clint buried his face in one of his hands.

 “We can’t steal cable.  It’s illegal and I am supposed to be one of the good guys. Good guys don’t steal cable.” Clint took a deep breath, released it slowly and walked over to the couch. “If you wanted to watch the TV you could have just told me. You’re going to have to disconnect it.”

 “Fine.”

 “I mean it.”

 “I said I’d fix it, didn’t I?”

 Clint flopped down next to him on the couch, just as the movie resumed. “Thanks. I’ll call the cable company tomorrow and see about getting something set up.”

 “And internet.”

 Clint looked over at Bucky sharply. “How do you know about… you know what, sure. And Internet.”

 Though the change was minor, Clint could see the corner of Bucky’s mouth pull up into the slightest of grins.  Slumping back against the couch, letting his thigh press more firmly against Bucky’s, Clint looked back to the TV.

 “I mean it, though. You need to go disconnect it.”

 “Yup.” Bucky leaned back, mirroring Clint’s posture and draping his arm across the back of the couch, fingertips just skimming Clint’s coller.

 The show played on, and Clint had to admit it was nice. Beyond nice. The tree with its shiny baubles and twinkling fairy lights. The stockings - Clint was totally going to call them stockings - hanging from the railing. The Christmas antics being acted out on the TV. Bucky sitting at his side.  The dog close by.

 “Maybe fix it tomorrow. Before the cable guy gets here.”

Bucky had the good grace not to laugh. “Sounds like a plan.”


	9. Day  Nine: The Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Nine: In which Clint almost makes a move and no one makes any jokes about the cableman.

“Can I ask you a question?”  Clint folded his arms over the top of the parapet, leaning over the side so he could look down.  It was an interesting vantage point to where Bucky was suspended a few feet below, clipped to the brick in a climbing harness doing something that might as well have been magic to the cable box.

The morning had been quiet, uneventful, up until the moment that Clint’s cell chimed to inform him that the cable company would be sending someone over in thirty to do their thing.  In New York time, that mean somewhere in the vicinity of two to three hours, but better to be safe than sorry.

Clint didn’t even have to ask; Bucky had just tugged on an extra long sleeved tee, gathered some gear, and headed up the fire escape to the roof .  Clint had puttered around, pretending to be useful for all of ten minutes before he gave up on the charade.  Though it hadn’t be explicitly stated, Clint knew his time with Bucky was waning; so sue him if he wanted to spend as many of those moments in his company as possible.

Wanting a plausible excuse for his presence, Clint grabbed up Bucky’s discarded coat and followed out the window.  It was cold outside, dammit. 

By the time Clint made it to the roof, Bucky had already been strapped in and hard at work, so Clint had just tugged on the jacket for himself and stayed.

Bucky didn’t directly respond to the question with an affirmative, but he didn’t tell Clint fuck off either.   Close enough to permission; now the decision was what to ask.  There were so many questions, it was damn near impossible for Clint to choose. 

_ How did you learn to steal cable; is that Hydra S.O.P?  Why did you agree to come home with me? Why did you stay? What was with the mistletoe?  Why couldn’t I sleep just because you stayed downstairs last night?  When are you going to leave and take away something I am starting to think I can’t live without?   _

Clint disregarded them all to settle on the one that had been bothering him ever since their first words were exchanged in the woods.

“I gotta know - how is it that you are so….” Clint trailed off and as soon as Bucky looked up. Clint flapped a hand in his general direction, “.... functional?”

Bucky scoffed, “I might be functioning, but I don’t know that it can be qualified as functional.”

“After what you went through, it would be completely understandable for you to be one step above catatonic,  or a seething ball of hate and rage.  No lie, it still surprises me to see you calmly eating your way through my cereal or  brushing your teeth like a well adjusted member of society.”  Clint forced a believable enough chuckle,  trying to make sure he kept the tone light.

Bucky did something complicated in the box, leaning back in the harness to inspect his work.  He was quiet long enough for Clint to think the topic was closed.

“The way you thought I would be- catatonic- never so much. Pissed the fuck off?” Bucky coughed a laugh, bitter and humourless, “All the damned time.  See, I had to be operational. They had to be confident that they could drop me in and that I could get the job done.  I know now that I wasn’t given much free will, but I did have enough autonomy to make my own choices and to know how to survive.”

“Like knowing how to splice cable?” Clint couldn’t resist the urge to ask.

“Hacking into a surveillance feed or internet connection isn’t so much different.  Sometimes the job required stealth, subtilty. They didn’t always just use me as a trigger.” 

Bucky went back to work, acting like they weren’t discussing anything more taxing than the weather. 

“What do you know about DC?” 

Clint leaned against the rail, aiming for nonchalance.  Even if Bucky couldn’t see him, he was hoping the posture would keep up the ruse. 

“The showdown in the street and Steve recognizing you I have in pretty good detail. Whatever went down on the helicarrier, not so much - though I did see the damage - and that’s about it.”

“In DC, Steve was my mission. I was to ensure that he was taken out of the equation.  Any acting associates were to be dealt with accordingly.  I was to complete my mission at any cost.” His tone had gone flat, metronomic, repeating from memory something as static as the words on a page. He paused to replace one tool with another, and when he resumed, his voice was back to what Clint had come to know so well. “Steve was going to let me kill him.  He had done what he needed to do and was just going to let me kill him. I almost did.” 

Images flashed through Clint’s mind - a strobe of memory: the tesseract; Loki’s smile; brilliant white-blue; Natasha’s eyes. Shaking himself to keep from going under, Clint tried to refocus on Bucky’s words. 

“ -- didn’t know it then, but I was longer out of the freeze than I think they ever had me.  Best I can figure, whatever they did to me to keep me… viable… worked against them.  They tried to keep the memories down, tried to wipe them away, but after a while it all comes back.”

Bucky gave up the pretense of working, hanging heavy in the harness.

“The more I was around Steve, the more I kept getting… this overlay, like a double exposure.  In the end, I just couldn’t do it.  After the river, it all just started coming back.  The earliest were triggered by location, but after a while…” Even from this angle, Clint could see the shrug. “I didn’t even realize I was getting headaches until they started to go away and I never really recognized that everything was changing until after it already had.”

Bucky pressed his feet into the wall,  adjusting  a strap holding him in the harness to crank himself higher. He went back to work.

“Did you know Pierce?”

Clint shook his head, and then realized that Bucky couldn’t see him. “Never met him.”

“Ever see him?”

“Uhh, yeah. A few times in person - mostly in print.”

“He looked like Steve.” It was the first time that Clint could hear the strain of the topic in Bucky’s voice. “When he was younger - he looked so much like Steve… I don’t know if it was on purpose or just really shitty luck, but once they figured it out, they used it. Kept it easier, I guess.  I thought I knew him, so I wanted to believe him. Even after everything, I thought I was where I belonged.  Things haven’t gone so well for them now that I know I was wrong.”

“How are you so calm about this?”  Clint hadn’t intended to ask, it wasn’t his place, but this was some next level moment of zen.  After New York, Clint had tried to cope, he really had, but he was pretty sure he lost whole weeks buried under the blankets in his bed.  Then there were the hours of mandated S.H.I.E.L.D. therapy filled with nothing but bad coffee and sullen silences.  Fury had ultimately just given in and signed the paperwork rather than continue to waste everyone’s time.  

“Being mad about it doesn’t change it.” Bucky looked up, catching Clint’s eye, “After Steve, I gave myself my own mission - Hydra was going to burn. Having a purpose kept me going. Somewhere along the way, I didn’t need the mission anymore. What happened’s not gone, and I haven’t forgotten it, but… dealing with it. Functioning.  Look where it got me - here I am, returning your Christmas gift.” 

Bucky tossed a small, tired smile up at Clint with the weak attempt at a joke and went back to work.  The conversation was over.

Turning his back to the ledge, Clint glanced around the rooftop, looking for something to distract him.  The building had rode out the storm better than he would have expected given the state of repair and the age.  There was some damage to the masonry that he would probably have to patch come spring, but for the most part -

Clint’s eye caught on the corner of the roof.

“Aww! He made it.” Clint leaned back over the edge to holler down at Bucky, “ James, look! The snowman made it!”

“Good for him.”

“Your words say one thing, but your tone… your tone wounds.”  Clint clutched a hand over his chest dramatically, and then pushed off the ledge to go over towards the remnants of the snowman.  He barely caught the snort from over the lip of the building, and it brought a smile to his face.

His little buddy was, by and large, exactly how he had left it - though the head had once again be liberated from its body and the Christmas snow had sealed the knife wound over the snowman’s heart.  Clint traced his fingertips over the covered gash, inexplicably touched. He packed the snow bandage a little tighter over the wound to insure that it stuck.

_ You’re a sap, Barton _ a little voice sing-songed inside of his head. Yeah, well, tell him something he didn’t already know.

Satisfied with the repair, Clint bent down to scoop up the head.  Turning it rightside up in his hands, Clint noticed that it hadn’t fared quite as well as the rest of the body.  The line of bark forming the mouth had fallen away and the press of the wind had almost completely washed clean the ashy warpaint.

Clint cocked his head, considering. Maybe the changes weren’t damage afterall.   Cradling the head carefully, he wiped away what smudges remained until the snow around the coal eyes was as pristine as he could get it.  Much better.

Carefully affixing the head back into its proper position - he really needed to do something about that, it felt like a really bad metaphor even to his own mind to let the snowman keep losing its mind - he rooted around in the snow searching for the bark pieces previously used as mouth.  

No luck. Twisting his mouth, Clint planted his hands on his hips and looked around. Ok. No bark, but there had to be something else that he could use.  As if on cue, a short length of black electrical cable appeared over the edge of the rooftop. Clint knew he was grinning, and didn’t care when he jogged back over to retrieve it.  

He paused long enough to lean over the ledge, “Thanks!”

Bucky just grunted, focused on whatever he was doing to the cable box.  It wasn’t until Clint was halfway back to his creation that Bucky called back up , “For what?”. Clint didn’t really think it was necessary to answer.

Clint fiddled with the little scrap of black cable until it was bent exactly to his specifications.  With as much care as he had given to the rest of it, Clint pressed the new little mouth into the snowman’s face.  Rather than the grumpy frown a week prior, now the little snowman gave the tiniest of smiles right back.

He pulled his cell from his pocket to snap another picture.  He liked this version better.  

No sooner had the shutter clicked, the stairwell door clanged open and Clint looked over to catch a shock of bright pink against the interior dark.  Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he gave a sharp whistle.

“Hey, Clint!” As Aimee came the rest of the way onto the rooftop, Clint walked over to join her, “I was hoping I would find you up here.  You gotta minute?”

Clint shoved both his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Why not. What’s up?”

“Furnace is acting up. You think you can take a look?

“It doesn’t have an arrow in it, does it?”

Aimee laughed, “No. Not this time. Actual mechanical failing I think, not collateral damage.”

“Well, I can see if I can figure it out. No guarantees.”

"That's fine. I don’t know what the deal with it is,  but some of the units are getting air and some of aren’t.  It’s not so bad that anyone is gonna freeze or anything, but ---” Aimee trailed off, eyes focused on a spot just over Clint’s shoulder. “ --woah.”

Clint glanced back to see what caused the distraction, just in time to catch the tail end of the vault back over the parapet.  Bucky landed lightly, despite his size.  He unclipped the harness from his hips, and ducked out of a loop of cable coiled over his shoulder.  After setting the items carefully beside the other assorted tools he had insisted upon hauling up to the rooftop, Bucky turned and walked over to join them.

Ok. This was new.  

Bucky stopped a few feet away, almost close enough to form a little circle but further out than social niceties normally dictated.  His head was tilted, chin tipped out just enough to show his jawline to maximum effect and he had a small smile, just shy of cocky, on his face.  Everything about him - from the plant of his hips, to the set of his shoulder, to the cant of the grin - all screamed confident flirt. 

If it hadn’t been for the hours that Clint had spent in his company over the preceding days, he never would have noticed the coiled tension in his shoulders or the tightness at the corner of his eyes. Bucky might be playing at confidence, but this was a mask, if ever he had seen one.  If that was how Bucky wanted to play it, who was Clint to say otherwise.

“Aimee,” Clint turned back to the girl and almost choked on a laugh.  Though she wasn’t as slack jawed as she had been, the elevator eyed perusal she was giving Bucky was impossible to miss, “this is James. He was doing some work on the cable.”

Bucky’s smile grew a touch wider, and he tipped his head, never breaking eye contact to look at up her through impossibly long lashes. “Ma’am. I gotta say,” Bucky’s eyes raised up to take in the shock of fuchsia hair, “that color’s right keen on you.”

Aimee giggled, high and bright, and gave him a beaming smile. 

“Aren’t you a charmer?” 

Clint was pretty sure that Bucky winked. He couldn’t see for certain, hadn’t been watching close enough, but he was at least eighty-percent certain that was what had happened.  Forget spy work; the man should be on the stage.

“Did I hear you say something about the heat?” 

“Yeah. Furnace is acting up. I was just asking Clint if he wouldn’t mind taking a look.”

Bucky cast his eyes towards Clint, “I can see about it, if you want. Can probably get it up and running within the hour.”

Clint raised an eyebrow, “You know about heating and air?”

Bucky pinched his lips together, widened his eyes pointedly, and tipped his head for emphasis. Ohh. Right.  Additional skill sets. Okay then.

Clint gave him and nod, and turned back to Aimee just as Bucky walked back over to gather the tools.

“We’ll get it handled.

Aimee reached up to spin one of the little hoops marching its way up the ridge of her ear and moved a little closer, arm just brushing Clint’s. “Way to go, Clint.” Each word was enunciated, heavy with emphasis and said through a grin.

“It’s not like that.”

“Really? Too bad.”

Clint laughed, a bit ruefully.  Tell him something he didn’t know.

Aimee patted him on the arm, and turned to head back inside. 

“Nice snowman. Yours?”

“Yeah, did him the other night after the party.” Clint looked over to beam proudly at his handiwork. 

Aimee sorted a little laugh, “Nice. I like it.”

Clint beamed, “Thanks! Cute, isn’t it?”

Aimee looked from Clint to the snowman back to Clint over to Bucky and back to the snowman again.  Her cheek pouched out as she chewed on her tongue, considering. Her mouth twisting, failing to contain a smile, she looked back to Clint eyes bright with laughter, “Sure. Not the word I would have used, but we can go with cute.”  

Her eyes slid pointedly back to Bucky, where he was crouched, piling tools back into the bag, muscle straining against the back of his shirt.  Clint went crimson.

She laughed again, and raised her voice. “It was a pleasure to meet you, James! Thanks for takin’ a look for us!”

Bucky stood, holding the bag and gave her a little wave.

“No trouble at all.”

With one last laughing look at Clint, she disappeared back through the stairwell door.

Clint was still trying to reclaim his dignity when Bucky joined him. “Is that my jacket?”

Clint heaved a sigh, and ran a hand over his hair.  Just once, he was going to catch a break.

* * *

True to his word, the furnace hadn’t even taken Bucky an hour.  

He had banged around, crawled underneath the ducting so filthy even Clint would have thought twice, and sworn up a blue streak about outdated machinery and fire hazards, but in under thirty it was back to buzzing along and even Clint could feel the warmth following through previously cool vents.  

Clint had stayed down with him in the basement while Bucky had worked. He had given up all pretense on an excuse for his presence, but Bucky hadn’t seemed to care. 

As Bucky gave the ancient piece of machinery one final look over, Clint noticed a streak of dirt curving its way down Bucky’s cheek, edging its way just past the tilt of his mouth to disappear beneath his jawline.  It was a dark mar, no doubt left over from whatever he had done beneath the ventilation tubing. 

_ Don’t do it, Barton. _

Bucky crouched down, gathering up his things.  Clint shoved his hands down into his pockets, curling his fingertips into the seam, trying to look anywhere but at the smudge.  It wasn’t his problem; Bucky wasn’t his to touch. 

The reminder wasn’t working.  

“You’ve got a little something-” Clint gestured with his thumb down the side of his own face.  Maybe if Bucky rubbed it off Clint could let the desire to touch go.

Bucky stood, walking over to Clint and mimicked the motion, scrubbing at his own skin - but on the wrong side.  He was too close.

_ Don’t do it, Barton _ .

“No, man. Over here.” Clint repeated the gesture, a little more forcefully, complete with a finger wiggle to emphasis left from right.

Bucky just shrugged, “I’ll just wash it off later.”

_ Don’t do it, Barton.  _

 Completely ignoring the voice of caution screaming in his head, Clint stepped closer and reached out towards Bucky’s face. “Here, let me…”

 Clint carefully wiped away the smudge, doing everything in his power to not think about the rasp of stubble and the softness of skin beneath his fingertips.  Clint chased the mar down to its end, and the pressure of his fingers had Bucky lifting his head, ceeding to the pressure under his jawline.  The movement narrowed the difference in height.

 There was a flash of pink as Bucky wet his bottom lip.  

  _Don’t do it, Barton_.

 Bucky tilted his head, mouth still softly parted, and Clint stopped breathing.

 Bucky took a step forward; Clint took a step back.  He took another step forward;  Clint took another step back, bumping against a support beam.

  _What the hell are you doing, Barton_.   _You already did the thing, so why stop now?_

 The little voice, previously so adamant that Clint _not_ do the thing had undergone a change of heart and was now pretty forcibly urging him to just give in. Alright fine. Enough was enough.  Clint reclaimed a foot of the ceded ground and the light in Bucky’s eyes went dark.. feral… pleased.

  The pressure on Clint’s hand lessened as Bucky pressed up, chest coming flush against Clint’s, rising ever so slightly to his toes -

 There was a soft click of a door latch releasing,the squeak of the basement door against its hinges, and the soft shuffle of footfalls on the worn wooden stairs.

  _You gotta be fucking kidding me_.

 Clint scrambled backwards, tripping over his own two feet, and sat down hard on the concrete, back of his skull connecting sharply with the post. It was hard to tell over the ringing in his ears, but Clint would have sworn he heard Bucky utter a curse beneath his breath and he turned to face whoever was approaching down the stairs. 

A petite Vietnamese girl came into view, movements hesitant.

 Clint leaned forward to rub at the back of his head, squinting at her past the swirling stars obscuring his field of vision - there was going to be a knot, he could tell already. “Hey, Leah.”

 Head turning at the sound of his voice, Leah’s face broke out into a sweet smile. “Heyya, Clint.  Aimee sent me down here to let you know that the heat’s back on.  She also had some other things to say, but I think it is best not to repeat them.” Leah cut her eyes towards Bucky with a subtle raise of eyebrow. She carefully mouthed “Cableman Jokes” and then gave an exaggerated eye roll.  

 Clint laughed - yeah, he could only imagine what it was that Aimee had to day.  “Probably for the best.” Clint went to stand, but the room gave a violent spin.  He would have ended up back on his ass if Bucky hadn’t grabbed ahold of his forearm and hauled him the rest of the way to his feet.

 “I must have hit my head harder than I thought.” Clint couldn’t hear the snort, but he knew it was there. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Just need a sec.” 

 Bucky shifted his position, but did not entirely release his hold. Rather than letting go, his arm came around Clint’s waist, pressing him flush up against the side of Bucky’s body. Clint was no longer sure if the roaring of the blood in his head was due to the might-be-a-concussion or the feel of every solid inch of Bucky pressed down his side.  

 “I wasn’t going to fall. I had that.”

 Bucked laughed, soft and wistful. “I know yah did.” 

 He jostled Clint slightly, rearranging his grip, so he could free up his right hand.  He held it out towards Leah.  “Apologies for this one. Pleasure to meet yah. I’m Bucky.”

  _Bucky_.  He had called himself Bucky. 

 Leah took his hand, giving it a soft shake. “I’m Leah. Aimee’s roommate. Nothing to apologize for; we should actually be thanking you for keeping an eye on him; that’s way more important than the help with the heat.  Not that we don’t appreciate that too!”

 Bucky laughed softly, “My pleasure, ma’am, on all accounts.”

 Where the hell was that tone coming from, all syrup sweet and dark as bourbon.  Pressed this close, Clint could feel the very vibrations of the words and it was making heat pool in his gut. 

 “I’m glad he has someone to look after him.”

 “I can look out for myself, thank you very much.”  The room had settled enough that Clint was confident he could stand on his own.  With some reluctance, he peeled himself from Bucky’s side, but didn’t move so far as to dislodge the hand that slid down to settle against his hip.

 Leah tipped her head demurely, “Well, I’ll leave you to it. We just wanted you to know it was working great.”  

 Bucky gave another bone melting smile and that same polite tip of his head, “Ma’am.”

 Leah darted back up the stairs, pausing halfway for an instant to smile back down at them over her shoulder, before she was gone.

 Clint turned to look at Bucky with every intention of finally addressing this head on. He didn’t make it that far. Bucky had already released him to go get all of the stuff. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs and check that head.”

 “I’m fine.”

 “I know yah are. Come one.”

 Clint trudged up the stairs after him. 

 

* * *

They had been stopped no less than six times in the time it took them to make it to Clint’s loft. Word had gotten around - thanks to Aimee no doubt - that there was someone else running around with Clint and everyone and their dog (literally) wanted to see for themselves.

 Bucky was polite, confident, and every inch the gentleman during every single encounter.  He was all warm smiles, firm handshakes, and friendly words and Clint hated every, single moment of it.  It was an irrational jealousy - Bucky wasn’t his to hoard - but Clint’s heart didn’t care about that logic.  For days Bucky had been his alone, and Clint was learning that he didn’t like to share.

 Between the headache and the guilt roiling in his gut, it was going to make for a long afternoon.  

 Finally making it to the hallway leading to Clint apartment, Clint trailed behind Bucky lost in thought.  They really needed to talk about what was going to happen. 

 Clint heard the scrape of a key in the lock, so he paused, letting Bucky get the door open.

  If Tony did know something was up, it was only a matter of time before this all came crashing down.   If they handled it on their own terms, then everything would go so much better.  

 Bucky started forward, so Clint followed still on autopilot

 It wasn’t fair. Clint couldn’t keep him. The man deserved so much better than a broke, broken, pretend-.  

 Clint slammed into Bucky’s back, abruptly dropping the self-pitying train of thought.  Bucky had frozen just inside of the door jam, halfway into the loft.

 “Whadya stop for?” Clint peeled himself from where he was plastered to Bucky’s back, trying hard to not preserve to memory exactly what that had felt like.  Today was providing enough contact to provide Clint with enough memories to last a lifetime.  Standing on his tip-toes, he peered over Bucky’s shoulder trying to look into his apartment. Not spotting any immediate threats, he tried for tactic number two - following Bucky’s eyeline.

“Ohh. Heh, yeah… Aimee must have put that up there.” There was a sprig of mistletoe affixed directly above his door, held implace with a satiny purple ribbon. “What can I say, the girl’s got jokes.  I promise it’s not a bomb or threat or anything. It’s nothing, just a weed. You know what that is, right? Did they have that in the forties. It feels like they did. I think that…”

 During Clint’s ramble, Bucky turned around. Clint had not backed up near far enough. They were practically nose to nose, and Clint’s entire field of vision was filled with the other man’s eyes.  Again.  Twice in one day. Clint’s life was a cosmic joke. 

“Barton, shh.”

“Ahh, no. Don’t you shush me, too. Everyone is always shh-ing me. I meant it, I’m fine, come’on…”

“Clint.” The use of his first name stopped the tirade in its tracks.  This was exactly the third time Bucky had used his name. Clint knew. He had been keeping track.  The first time had been a plea at the park. The second time a warning not to push. This… this was different;  _ way  _ different. Something niggled at the back of Clint’s mind. Maybe it wasn’t the third time; it felt like he was missing one in there… but that couldn’t be right, could it? Maybe when -

The next thing that Clint knew, Bucky was leaning forward and that mouth that Clint had spent the previous eight days trying to not stare at was now less than a heartbeat’s breadth away.  This was the capitulation of the moment on the couch, the intended follow-up to the encounter in the basement, everything Clint had tossed and turned through the sleepless night thinking about.

 Bucky didn’t close the rest of the distance, just held Clint’s gaze with his own.  It was a question posed that Clint had to be brave enough to answer.

Clint wasn’t sure if he nodded or blinked or if it was just the shaky exhale of breath that managed to convey the running litany of  _ Yes, Yes, Yes, Please God, Yes _ that was running through his head, but something did the trick.  A flash of emotion that Clint didn’t have an easy name for passed through Bucky’s eyes. Before Clint could try to overanalyze the moment, his lips were pressed against Bucky’s and all brain function ceased entirely.

 Technically, you could barely even call it a kiss.  It was just the barest of touch and dry slide and was over in a moment.  No sooner than it had started, Bucky backed away, turned and walked into the the apartment like the entire world hadn’t just flipped on its axis.

 Clint stood, stock still, mouth agape in the doorway waiting for his brain to come back online.  Lucky was rioting around his ankles, barking and whining in equal measure, joyful at their return and Clint could hardly bring himself to notice.

 Bucky had kissed him. Kissed him beneath the mistletoe. And then walked away. Like it didn’t matter.

 Clint blinked - one eye lagging slightly behind the other.  Maybe he had imagine it. Maybe it was a concussion talking, giving him delusions of all the things he wanted and never could have. Clint had the perverse desire to pull out his wallet and see if it was just as empty as it had been earlier that morning.

 Bucky sat down heavily on the couch, and if Clint would have been paying more attention, he might have caught the tremor in his hands when Bucky grabbed up the remote flipping on the television and the DVD player in turn. Clint stumbled into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him and walked over to the couch.  

 Bucky scooted over, making room for Clint and kicking his feet up on the coffee table as he cued up the next episode in the series they had been watching.  Clint sat down heavily, uncoordinated, and his weight hitting the couch had him sliding in close against Bucky body.  Bucky just draped an arm across the back of the couch, fingertips over Clint’s shoulder as they had been so many times before.

Clint didn’t even notice the movie start, no longer registered the dull thump of pain in his head or the soreness in his tailbone from its close encounter with the concrete. Things were changing.  Clint just wasn’t sure how or why or what in the hell he was going to do about it… all he knew for certain was that he was running out of time.


	10. Day Ten: The Christmas Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10: In which Clint embraces throwback Thursday and Bucky makes a choice.

Clint stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie.  This was ridiculous. He looked like a schmuck.  Giving up on straightening the knot, Clint rubbed at his face. Fitting then; he was one.

A non-schmuck would have done something, _anything_ , by now, not just ignore the issue, hoping it would solve itself.

A non-schmuck would have asked if the kiss was nothing more than tradition or if it was what Clint desperately hope the preceding days had been building towards.

A non-schmuck would have said something instead of just falling asleep on the couch because he didn’t want to go to bed alone.  

A non-schmuck wouldn’t have woken up in bed alone after the object of all of this schmuckley had apparently put him there.

So - to recap - Clint was a schmuck.

He fisted his hands through his hair, not even noticing the disarray the habit caused in the, for once, orderly gold. There wasn’t anything he could do about the laundry list of poor life choices now. The day was gone, wasted, and he was due at the Christmas party - Clint looked down at his watch - thirty minutes ago.  Fantastic.

Clint turned towards the bed to grab the thread worn grey sports coat he had left their earlier and noticed a nimbus of illumination glowing from beneath the edges of his downturned phone.  Wierd; he hadn’t heard it chiming.Clint grabbed the phone, ignoring the message to fiddle with the setting. Hmm. It was already set to ring, and turned up to max.

Clint reached up to rub at his ear; maybe it was just busted, or the message hadn’t come through correction, or…

Clint’s hand stilled - or maybe it wasn’t any fault with the phone at all.

Clint wasn’t wearing his aids.

He had taken them out for the shower and hadn’t put them back in. He had been wearing the small earbuds near constantly with Bucky in the house, but the other man was habitually so quiet and his presence now so _normal_ that Clint hadn’t even noticed the differences in the silence. If was the first time in his memory that it had ever happened.  Rubbing absently at the shell of his ear, Clint turned over the phone.

 

 _From: Nat_ :   
    -- Change in plans. No gifts. Come alone.

 

 _Sending…_   
    -- ???

 

 _From: Nat_   
    -- Stark got ahold of the party.

 

Clint groaned, tossing the phone back onto the bed. Perfect.  He didn’t need to hear the sentence aloud to know exactly where the emphasis lie. _Party_.

With short, sharp tugs, Clint loosened the tie and yanked it back over his head, not bothering to undo the knot.  If this was going to be an actual _party_ party, then he was going in something comfortable.

Clint spun to go back to the closet and barely choked back a strangled yelp.  Bucky was standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest, and leaning against the wall -- every indication point to him having been there awhile.  Bucky reached up, tapping at his ear with a finger, eyebrows raised in question.

Clint nodded, forgetting the mission to lose the tie and pulled opened his nightstand to withdraw a well worn case and clip the contents over the shell of his ear.  With a crackle and pop, ambient sound washed back over him in a wave.

“Sorry;  forgot to put them back in.”

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“Don’t worry about it.  I should have had them on.”

Bucky pushed off the wall, coming to stand close into Clint’s pace.  It was the closest he had been since the mistletoe and Clint was having a hard time keeping his body from responding - it was pretty much becoming Pavlovian at this point. Bucky reached up and traced the arch of the plastic.  “These are different.”

“They’re older, don’t work quite as good as the tiny ones, but... “ Clint shrugged, “ears were getting sore having the earbuds in all the time.”

Bucky’s hand stilled. “You don’t have to wear them on my account.”

Clint didn’t know how to respond to that. It felt rude to say that first he hadn’t wanted to take away his sense of sound over unease of another person, an _unknown_ , in his space. It felt too revealing to admit that somewhere along the line that had evolved into not wanting to take them out so he wouldn’t miss a single detail of Bucky’s presence.

Clint took the easy answer, “Ok.”

Bucky continued to search his face, then let his hand, and the matter, drop.

“Everything else alright?” Bucky gestured at the discarded phone.

“Define alright?” Clint chuffed out a humorless laugh. “Stark got his grubby hands all over tonight.  What was supposed to be a short little thing with a dozen odd people is now being deemed a ‘party’ and I would eat my car if there are less than two hundred people there by the time I show up.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“Semantics. It is going to be a madhouse. Not really what I had planned for Christmas Eve.” Not even close. Clint had wanted a quick in and out, mingling only briefly with the rest of the team, and then to come back to the loft to spend another quiet evening with Bucky where he could watch stupid shit on the television and pretend that there wasn’t a ticking clock on the domesticity.  

“And the tie?”

Clint held up the indicated article of clothing, giving it a small shake for emphasis. “Just because I have to be _part_ of the ridiculous doesn’t mean I have to _look_ the part. Ties and coats are not required at any event involving more than fifty people.”

“Since when is that a rule?”

“Since always.”

“What about weddings? Or Funerals? Or those press conferences? Those require a tie and typically have more than fifty.”

“Again, semantics. Besides, when have you ever seen me wear a suit for the press?” Clint went to move past Bucky, but was brought up short when Bucky tugged the tie from his hand.  He quickly unraveled the knot and smoothed the paisley purple fabric between metal fingertips.  

Bucky popped the collar back up on Clint’s black dress shirt, draping the tie around his neck.  Grabbing both ends, Bucky gave a slight tug, sending Clint stumbling closer.  

Clint’s breathing went shallow, rapid little pants of air and every nerve felt like a live wire. God. What sort of perversion had he been a participant in during a previous life to earn this sort of karmic hell? The difference in height meant that Clint couldn’t read whatever was going on in Bucky’s eyes, but he could see the plush bow of Bucky’s mouth, pressed to the side in concentration.

With quick, confident motions, Bucky re-knotted the tie - tenfold better than Clint’s original attempt.  His fingertips - both warm flesh and cool metal - trailed across Clint’s neck when he fixed the collar, extra attention given to each crease and point, and then drug down the flat of Clint’s chest, pressing the tie smooth.  

“You can lose the coat, but keep the tie.   It’s a good look on you.” Bucky looked up at Clint through his lashes, and wet his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.  Idle words from a man wearing Clint’s eight year old sweatpants, but in this moment Bucky could have told him to dress like Mrs. Claus and Clint would have done so willingly.

With one last pat to the tie, right in the proximity of Clint’s heart, Bucky stepped back and turned to head down the stairs. “If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to be late.”

The air rushed back to fill the void with a snap and Clint drew a heavy breath, stumbling back a few steps to sit on the edge of the bed.  That was an invitation. That had been an invitation, right?  But why would it be? What could Bucky possibly want with him?

He groaned, and rubbed at his face.”I'm already late…”

Between the touching, and the skin, and the kiss, and the _touching_ and the **kiss** there couldn’t be anyway Clint was reading this wrong, but… what if he was? What little he knew about Bucky’s past pointed at him being pretty strictly a ladies man.  Clint was already about to lose him from his immediate life - when he turned himself over, went back to Steve, or whatever else was in that magic eight ball of bad possibilities - but if Clint pressed and was completely off base, then he would run the risk of losing Bucky from his life completely.

That wasn’t a risk Clint was willing to take.

Allotting himself one last moment of self-pity, Clint stood and began rolling up the shirtsleeves while he went downstairs to find his leather coat.  If he was going to have to wear the tie, then by god he would at least make the rest of it manageable.  It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

Clint climbed out of the cab and looked up at the seemingly endless expanse of Stark tower.  Near the penthouse, there was a cacophony of red and green lights, flashing in strobe through the acres of glass.  Yeah. _Party_ was going to be an understatement.

Clint adjusted the red velvet santa hat perched on his head - as he had been leaving, Bucky had tossed it to him with the instruction to be _festive_ and Clint was rapidly discovering he couldn’t say no to any request from the man - and shoved his hands into his pockets as he headed inside.  Might as well get this over with.

The elevator ride up to the upper floors was eerily silent.  The quiet muzak piped over the sound system was a subtle misdirection, making the riot of sound that assaulted him the moment the doors slide open all the much more jarring.

Every team member (past, present, and hopeful), half of the manhattan urbanite elite, and god only knew who else was packed elbow to elbow in the garishly decorated space.  There was fake snow spread across the floor, no less than a baker’s dozen evergreens decked out to the nines, and giant metallic faux presents stacked haphazardly into every available corner. Who knew, they might not even be fake - it wouldn’t surprise Clint in the least.

A house remix of Jingle Bell Rock was blasting through invisible speakers and Clint spared a moment to wonder why in the hell such a thing would even exist.

It wasn’t until the elevator doors gave a ping and began to slide shut that Clint got his act together.  He slipped through the gap and pushed his way into the throng.  Here went nothing.

 

* * *

 

The skin on the back of Clint’s neck prickled with awareness and he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.  He had already been in this overly festive fourth circle of hell for an hour and had managed to not interact with a single soul.  Not that he was complaining, mind you, it was just the way that it was.

Clint took a drag from the long neck in his hand, using the motion to cover the sweep of the room.  There were no easy-to-spot culprits.  Just as everyone had been when he came in, all the party-goers were pretty much doing their own thing.  Pietro was still flirting uselessly with Trish.  Hank was deep in it with Bruce and Reed about something that Clint was sure would go right over his head.  Sam was gesturing animatedly, standing in the center of a circle comprised of Jessica, Scott, Sharon, and at least a few others Clint couldn’t quite make out from this direction. Even Marc was lurking in a corner looking uncomfortable, but not a single one of them were paying any attention to Clint.

Across the expanse of what could conservatively be called a dance floor, near the largest of the Christmas trees - seriously, the thing had to be over thirty feet tall - Clint spotted Natasha and Kate, heads bowed together in conversation.  Huh. Musta just been them, then.

No sooner did he take a step towards them, they both turned as a unit to look in Clint’s direction.  He waved, and then pointed at himself in question. Kate waved back, oblivious to what Clint was asking, but Natasha subtly mouthed _Not everything’s about you, Clint_. The genuine smile she gave him softened the chide.  Ok. Not them then.

Playing along, Clint clutched at his chest, feining a pain to his heart.  Clint could see Natasha press her mouth into a line (victory - that might as well be counted as a laugh) and caught the barest glimpse of Kate’s eye roll as they went back to their conversation.

Just as Clint went to give the room another pass,  a heavy hand clamped down on Clint’s shoulder and he was assault with the smell of expensive cigars and even pricier bourbon.  “William Tell! Just the man I was looking for.”

There went his hopes of this night going smoothly. “Evening, Tony. Quite the shindig you've got going here.”

Clint glanced over to take his new companion in.  Stark was dressed head to toe in a slim-lined, perfectly tailored red suit that made the nicest thing Clint owned feel woefully cheap in comparison.  His dress shirt was a brilliant emerald green the exact color of the sunglasses perched on his face despite the hour and location.  The silver sequined tie reflected back the bright lights of the room like a miniature disco ball, momentarily blinding Clint when he made the mistake of looking directly at it.  Altogether, the get-up should have been wildly ostentatious, but somehow, like always, Stark made it work.

“A little bird told me that we had things to discuss.”  Tony’s hand slid down to catch against Clint’s ribcage as he steered them both expertly through the crowd towards a comparatively quiet, almost private corner of the room.

“You must have heard wrong.” Clint carefully disengaged himself from Tony’s hold and crossed his arms across his chest. “Unless you are talking about the thanks I owe you for the other day, then sure, we do have something to talk about.”

Tony flapped a hand dramatically, dismissively, eyes roving over the crowd.

“Not of interest.” Tony turned to regard Clint directly, dark eyes sharp over the emerald lenses of his glasses. “What _is_ of interest are the reports of the guy who was at the mall with you. That is _very much_ of interest. ”

“There wasn’t another guy. It’s like I told the cops Tony, people were scared. Chaos and disarray, that sort of thing. Just a mistake.”

Tony hummed thoughtfully, “You know, normally I would buy that coming from you, but I wonder….”

He snagged a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter, tossing the first one back and offering the second to Clint. When Clint declined, indicating the warming beer still held in his hand,  the second followed the first.

“See, I happened to skim some of the police reports, and a lot of the damage done just doesn’t really seem like your sort of thing. More blunt and force-y, less sharp and pointy.”

Tony broke off to give a thousand watt smile and blow air kisses to someone across the room, leaning closer to Clint in the process.

“Bit more like a signature reminiscent of that little shake down in DC.  Not that I am a betting man, but if I were, I would lay my chips on you covering up an involvement with the long lost buddy that has the good Captain’s knickers all in a twist.  Now, I’ve don’t have a clue how you inserted yourself  in the nonagenarian angst, but I am inclined to believe the scuttle about Natalia 2.0 haunting his way about Brooklyn, right within the radius of that demolition zone you call a home.”

Clint frowned at the jab towards Natasha, choosing to ignore the rest of it.  “That’s not even remotely funny. Don’t let Nat hear you sayin’ that.”

Tony threw up a hand, “No offense intended, I meant it only as a compliment.” He began ticking things off on his fingers. “Let’s recap: tragic; terrifying; hotter than hell; could kill a man with a spoon; smitten with you for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom.”

“Huh? What? Nat and I aren’t like that.”

Tony rounded on Clint, raising a champagne flute in triumph, “A ha! So it’s like that with the icebox, then?”

“I didn’t say that.” Did he? Clint thought back over his words, and could not follow the logic leap that Stark was making. Talking to Tony was exhausting.

Clint rubbed at his eyes. “Listen. Tony. I don’t know what you are talking about.  It was just me at the mall. I’m not hiding anyone.”

Tony searched Clint’s face for a long minute, then looked away, “I don’t blame him, you know.” The tone was solemn, sincere, and in no way matched the public expression still on his face. “You don’t punish the gun for firing the bullet. You go after the man who pulled the trigger.”

Huh. This was taking a turn. “Okay…..”

“I’m just saying - hypothetically - if you were harboring a wanted war criminal you don’t have to do it on your own.”

Clint knew he was openly gaping at Tony - any attempts at subterfuge long since dropped. “Why would you help?”

“I don’t like the idea of being culpable for someone playing puppet meister with your mind. I might not have the experience that you or Red October have under your belts, but… I get it.”  Tony belittled the emotional weight of the point with a shrug and a sharp downward twist of his mouth.  Clint had heard about the unicorn that was a compassionate Tony Stark, but up until this moment had never witnessed it.

“If I did know something about-” Clint waved his fingers towards Tony “- all of that. What exactly would you suggest I do?”  

Tony dumped the empty champagne flutes on a the already overburdened tray of a passing server and studiously adjusted his cufflinks. “The world’s a small place. Not many places for a man to hide. I know; I helped make it that way. If you think he can be trusted - and that we can trust your notoriously bad judgement -” Tony gave an exaggerated shiver, “then you need to get him to come in.  The longer he is on the run, the worse it is going to get.  If he won’t do that - and God this pains me to say - I think you need to tell Steve.”

“Tell Steve what?” The voice came from directly behind them, and both Clint and Tony jumped.  

“Cap, my man!  Looking dapper this evening, aren’t we!” Tony recovered in a moment, back in full schmooze mode. “Might I say, pleated pants have never looked so in fashion.”

Steve huffed a sigh, and looked over at Clint, eyebrows raised, clearly wanting an actual answer. Fuck.

“Umm… that….. “

Tony jumped back in, “Cupid and I were thinking that since tonight's festivities have gotten just a teensy-weensy bit out of hand, that we should have a smaller shindig of our own tomorrow.  I was promised gifts and tonight there are none to be had.”

“Right…”, Clint chimed in lamely. Tony elbowed him harshly in the ribs. “Yeah. Gifts and dinner?”

Did that sound like a question? It sounded like a question. Crap. Clint was terrible at this.

“Right-o. Tomorrow Night. Eight o’clock on the dot, 9 if you are feeling European.  Back here in this very spot.  We will wine, dine, and celebrate the Yule.  Feel free to bring a friend.” Tony looked pointedly at Clint, tipping his head for emphasis.

Yeah. Like that was likely to happen.

Tony forged on, back to addressing Steve. “Unless you had other plans we were rudely not informed about?”

“No. No plans. Christmas dinner actually sounds pretty nice. I think we could all use some quiet togetherness.” Steve looked so sincere, it made guilt prick at Clint’s skin. He was going to have to talk to Bucky. It pained him to admit it, but Stark was right;  it wasn’t fair to let Steve keep going on like this.

“Perfect! I’ll get it arranged.” Tony pulled a phone from the inner pocket of his jacket and began to text wildly, “Ohh, and that reminds me! You need to stop by the workshop and pick up one of these bad boys.”

Tony crowded in close to Steve, brandishing the phone like the threat Steve clearly thought it was, if the look of caged panic in his eyes was any indication.  “ They are brand spankin’ new, just off the assembly line. We can have you up and running in no time if you would just be willing to give up that archaic monstrosity of a flip phone you are emotionally bound to.”

Tony broke into a long winded tech babble, and Clint took that as his clue to split before Steve caught onto the distraction.

Actually -  that was a really good idea.  The phone thing, not the dinner bit - Clint had some serious reservations about the dinner, but that could be dealt with later. The phone on the other hand…

Tony had been working on the new phone prototypes for weeks. If his hype was to be believed, they were untraceable, unhackable, created their own endless supply of juice thanks to a miniaturized application of arc technology, could ping off of any satellite in orbit, and for all Clint knew could probably slice up julienne fries. It would be the perfect even-if-you-rabbit- _please_ -keep-in-touch gift for Bucky.  Just the right amount of clingy if Clint made sure his number was the only one programmed into the memory.

Now Clint just needed a way to get one. He could probably just ask, but where was the fun in that? Clint patted Tony on the back, carefully lifting his wallet, just like old times. “Thanks again for the get out of jail free card.”  

Clint turned, like he was going to go, and used the moment to rifle through the contents. No dice. No access badge or key card or anything to get him into the labs.

“Ohh, and Tony?” Clint crowded in close, miming the need to lean in to speak over the volume of sound to replace the wallet in the inner jacket pocket - it would be safer there anyways. “You think you could arrange for a pie for dessert? It just isn’t Christmas without a pie.”

_Seriously, Barton. That was the best you could come up with? Pie?_

Tony bought it though, nodding sagely as if he detected some extra, hidden meaning behind the empty words. “You got it, Hawkman.”

Tony held out a hand, and that is when Clint noticed it - the slim silver band encircling Tony’s wrist that he used to link himself to the armor.  Clint would bet his bow that Tony had keyed the thing to also act as a multipass.  

Clint took Tony’s offered hand more forcefully than strictly necessary, pumping it with a ridiculous amount of vigor, using the extra momentum to cover his fingertips running along along the clasp.  Easy as pie, the latch gave way and Clint released his hold just in time to catch the bangle before it fell. Jackpot.

Clint gave Steve a final jaunty salute, and with the bracelet in hand, made his escape. He could go do his duty and mingle for a while, move on to a little light fingered Christmas shopping, and be on his way home before the night got too deep.  

First though - make nice with the locals; it was the first rule of ditching a party this size - you had to make sure at least fifteen people could remember you were there before you split.  He was four down, eleven more to go.

 

* * *

 

Clint scanned the corridor one more time before swiping the bracelet against the lock.   _Come on; work._ The door gave a beep of acceptance that sounded painfully loud in the quiet corridor and unlocked with a snick. Clint grinned just a little, shoved the door open, and hurried inside with a little dance.  Clint loved it when he was right.

He set the band carefully down on one of the workstations so Tony could easily find it and then began to rummage through the workstations.  

It was the fifth box he pulled off the shelf - the one helpfully labeled ‘things’ (Aww - he and Tony _did_ have something in common)- which contained a small pile of the phones.  Clint grabbed one, cautiously looking it over.  It didn’t really look any different than any of the others Tony had passed out over the years, but it had to be the right box.  

Figuring he had time to figure it out later, Clint dropped the phone into his pocket and replaced the box on the shelf.  Mission accomplished, it was time to get the hell out of dodge.

Rather than go back down and through the party and risk getting waylaid, Clint took the stairs up another level.  There was a catwalk that spanned the upper mezzanine overlooking the central foyer.  He could take that to the far side of the room and catch the service elevator down to the kitchens.  From there, it was two service hallways and then sweet freedom.

There was always the chance that Clint might be spotted making his way across the catwalk if anyone below bothered to look up, but it was an acceptable risk.  Even if he was spotted, Clint seriously doubted that anyone would find anything odd about his location in the rafters. It was kinda his thing, afterall.  

 

Clint made it to the overlook without spotting a single soul.  He had to give it to Tony, the man knew how to throw a party that people didn’t want to leave.   Growing confident in his escape, he broke out into a jog.  It wasn’t until he was a quarter of the way across the walkway that he spotted the other person already occupying the roost.

 

The man was sitting on the edge of the catwalk, legs dangling over the side and arms draped across the bottom run of railing.  He was bobbing his head along to the music echoing up from below, and Clint could just catch the off-key attempts at harmonization.  The voice would have been a dead giveaway if Clint had needed any other point of reference beyond the head-to-toe red spandex.

Rather than retreat, Clint made his way out to him.  This he could handle.

“Gotta say, this is creepy -  even for you.”

Deadpool looked up, and Clint was pretty sure he was smiling. The guess was confirmed when Wade quickly rolled up the bottom of his mask and then raised his fist into the air. “Hey, Buddy! What’s crack-a-lackin?”

With the first genuine smile of the night, Clint complete the fistbump.  Wade pulled his hand back, wiggling his fingers and making the corresponding explosion sound effects.

“Just heading out. What are you doing up here?”

Wade looked back down to the party, having an exaggerated sigh.  “Wasn’t exactly invited.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Kinda used to it.” Wade leaned forward, resting his scarred chin atop his re-folded hands. “No biggie.”

Well, fuck that. “Nah, man. Why don’t you head on down. If anyone says anything, just tell them that you’re my plus one.”

Wade’s head snapped back to Clint, eyes going wide enough to cause a visible shift in the fabric.

“Really?!”

“Really, really.” Clint laughed as Wade launched to his feet, wrapping Clint in a fierce hug.

“You are the man!”  Clint’s laugh was abruptly cut off as Wade gave his ass a two handed groping squeeze. As quick as the assault on his person started, Wade released him and started to bounded off.

“Hey, Wade! Catch!” Clint called out after him. Clint shucked the Santa Hat off of his head and tossed it in Deadpool’s direction.  It was going to a good cause. “Knock ‘em’ dead.”

Wade caught the hat, tugged it on over his mask and gave Clint two thumbs up before he turned and disappeared around the corner.

“Not literally!” Clint hollered as an afterthought.  He knew not literally, right? Surely. Ehh, Tony could sort it out.  

Clint patted his pocket once to make sure the pilfered phone was still in place, and headed back off the direction of escape.  Time to get home.

 

* * *

 

Clint slumped through the apartment door, mood mellowed out during the long cab ride home. Tony’s words had be weighing on him. Just because he was right, however, didn’t mean Clint had to like it.

The lights in the apartment had been dimmed, the room lit only be the lights of the tree and a scattering of candles Clint was pretty sure he didn’t own.  The malaise lost a bit of its hold when Clint took in the rest of the room; everything rearranged.

His silhouette targets had been drug from their normal position to take up residence by the curtain hiding his map.  The tree had been pushed back, bows bending ever so slightly where they hit the corner.  The icing on the layercake of strange was that the couch had been pulled from the wall and repositioned to face the windows, offering a clear view of the gentle falling snow.

Everything was silent.

“‘James? Lucky?”

Clint heard his bathroom door squeak itself the rest of the way open and two sets of soft footsteps pad across the upstairs loft.  Lucky came bounding down the stairs first, with Bucky following into view shortly after.  He was sporting another pair of Clint’s plaid pajama pants and rubbing a towel into his shower dampened hair; the hem of the pants had been rolled into short cuffs and Clint’s heart gave a painful roll in his chest.

“The party already over?”

“Nah. It will probably run all night - just felt like coming home.”

Clint walked the rest of the way into the loft, and flopped down on the couch. “Did the television do something to offend you?”

Clint could hear Bucky chuckle softly as he moved around to sit down on the other side. “No. Just felt like watching the windows.”

“Fair enough.”

Clint didn’t know what to say. Bucky needed to know what Stark had said, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to want to shatter the little bubble of domesticity. The choice became that much harder when Bucky pivoted around, bring his feet up to the couch to tuck his bare toes beneath Clint’s thigh, as casual as if they had done this thing a million times before.

“Besides, the tree deserved to be center stage.”  There was something in Bucky’s tone that had Clint looking over.  

Something about the tree was different, but Clint couldn’t quite put his finger on it.  As far as he could tell, it was exactly as he and Natasha - ok, mostly Natasha - had decorated it.  Same silver tinsel. Same red glass baubles. Same fairy lights. Same little arrow -

Ohh. Clint’s little arrow tree was different.  

Someone had carefully strung lights around each shaft, outlining it in softly glowing green.  At the apex of the tree, tip embedded down into the long since disable tracking node, was one of the serrated blades Clint was beginning to think was a Winter Soldier trademark. Someone had carefully painted a small, metallic red star  against the flat of the silver blade.  The blade reflected the twinkling lights from above, casting a shaft of light down to stretch across the floor.

Clint looked over to find Bucky pointedly looking out the window.  Clint mouth twisted, face pulling with the desire to smile, but joy tempered with the knowledge of what needed to be done.

“Tony caught me tonight.” No reaction from Bucky. “He knows.  The man might be many things - but discrete would never be included in the top ten words I would use to describe him.”

Bucky was as still as Clint had ever seen him, as if all the distance between them than had been closing in the preceding days was yawning back out  into a widening gulf. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but whatever it is, if you want it to be on your own terms, you need to decide quick.  Stay or go, go back into hiding or go to Steve or anything inbetween. It’s your call, and…”Clint swallowed heavily, “... and I’ll support you in it, help any way I can, but if you stay here you are going to lose the chance to choose.”

The Christmas lights continued to glow, the snow continued to fall,  and everything else kept right on ticking along like Clint hadn’t just done the most painful thing of his bullet-hole riddled life.

“Tomorrow.” Bucky’s voice was soft. “I’ll go to Steve tomorrow.”

Clint couldn’t answer around the lump in his throat.

“For Christmas. Like you said.” Bucky pressed on.  Clint knew that he was trying to get a reaction or a response or something, _anything,_ other than the silted silence.

“Best be careful.” Clint’s voice cracked, but he pressed on.   “If the press catch wind of it, they will probably end up renaming you the Winter Santa or the Christmas Soldier. Probably that one; it is has a better ring to it.”

The damp towel smacked into the side of Clint’s face. Clint fisted his hands into it, wringing it softly in his lap.  It carried the soft scent of his own shampoo transferred from Bucky’s hair.

“Since the change in plans tonight - there is a small… thing… tomorrow evening.  Just a few of us - the ones who have been around the longest mostly. Tony, Nat, Bruce, maybe a few others…” Clint took a deep breath. “Steve.  It would be as good of a time as any, unless you wanted to do it private -”

“No.” The interruption was quick, decisive.

“Ok. I just wanted to offer. You can do it however -”

Bucky cut him off again, “Not private. I would rather you were there.”

Fantastic.  It was a lifelong dream of his, after all, to be the third wheel while Bucky reunited with his long-lost… whatever Steve was to him.

“Sure. If you want me there, then I’ll be there.” Clint wrapped his hand around Bucky’s ankle, giving it a soft squeeze.

“I don’t want to ruin their Christmas.”

Ohh. So that was what this was about. Clint looked over to Bucky - making sure to catch his eye, “You won’t be ruining anything.  I am pretty sure that at least of the ones going to be there have a pretty good idea I have been keeping you.” Clint cringed internally at the word choice. Keeping.   _If only_. “Tony lives for this sort of drama. Hell, he all but invited you.  The rest of them - they aren’t going to care at all once they see how important it is to Steve to have you back.”

Clint took a breath, stalling to find the right words to offer reassurance.  “The tower is it’s own thing. No press. No cops. Only those with clearance. There are worse ways this could all go down.”

“Ok.”

Clint looked back over, parroting the reply, “Ok?” He really hadn’t thought Bucky was going to agree to this.

“If you think it is a good idea, then I’ll go. We can go together.”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Bucky nudged Clint’s thigh with his toes, so Clint gave his ankle another squeeze, not daring to look over.  He the impending loss was written all over his face, and Bucky didn't deserve that.  Bucky wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t a stray. He was functioning better than Clint, for fuck’s sake.  The least Clint could do was facilitate his ability to choose. Didn’t matter one lick that all Clint wanted to do was to lock the door and pretend the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“Tomorrow.”

Bucky lapsed into silence after that, and Clint let it linger, his hand sliding up to wrap more firmly around Bucky’s calf.  If this was the last night he had, he could be a little selfish.  

With a sigh, Bucky settled more firmly into the corner of his couch, stretching his legs even further to wedge up higher beneath Clint’s thighs.  They sat there, just like that, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights, watching the snowfall, as Christmas Eve bled over into Christmas.


	11. Day Eleven: Avengers' Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Eleven: In which _almost_ everyone gets a happy ending...

Bucky frowned at his reflection in the mirror, running his fingers along the shorter strands of hair just above his ear which were refusing to stay tucked back into the little tail.  He had been standing in front of that mirror for over an hour adjusting and readjusting his hair, dressing and redressing his way through the same two sets of presentable clothes he had in his pack, and generally primping more than any person Clint had ever witnessed.

He had been acting out some variation of the theme all day. Clint had woken up, slouched down in the corner of a couch and covered with a blanket, to the sounds of Bucky running a shower.  That had been his first of three.  The rest of the day, Bucky had hardly spoken, cleaning and recleaning his weaponry, organizing and reorganizing his gear, and hell, he had even scrubbed the kitchen to as much of a sparkle as the ancient formica was capable of, all to avoid idle hands.

Despite the nerves, Clint had to admit he looked worlds better than he had just shy of two short weeks ago in the woods.  The bruised smudges of exhaustion were gone from beneath his eyes. Though still pale, his skin was no long sallow and the stark hollows had filled in just enough beneath his knife-edged cheekbones to make him look softer without taking anything at all away from the beauty.

That’s not to say that Clint was grateful for the other man’s distraction; leaning as he was in the doorway, it allowed Clint all the time in the world to look his fill, storing away the images for the days and weeks to come when he would be back on his own.  It was bittersweet.  Clint was happy that Bucky was going back to the only real family he had, but at the same time, just couldn’t get past the sense of loss.

Bucky huffed, and thumped his palms down against the countertop, dropping his head to hang between his shoulders. “I can’t get it right.”

Clint couldn’t stop the fond smile, even though he knew he should try. “You look fine. I told you that an hour ago.”

“I don’t want to look _fine._ ” The emphasis on the word had it coming out like a whine, and Clint bit the inside of his cheek to keep back a laugh.

“Better than fine?”

Bucky looked up from beneath his lashes, meeting Clint’s eyes in the reflection.  If there was ever a picture in the dictionary next to the word ‘petulant’, Clint was convinced that it would show Bucky making that face.

That was it; Clint let himself chuckle and pushed off the wall to join Bucky. He framed himself square in the mirror, own body dwarfed by the expanse of Bucky’s shoulders even with the extra height,  and set his hand against Bucky’s hip without thinking twice over the gesture. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

Bucky’s shoulders rocked in another dramatic sigh, the motion pressing his hips back just enough to graze into Clint. “I don’t know. I can’t get it right.”

Clint used his free hand to tug at the end of the tiny pony tail, “I could braid it again?”

Bucky twisted a corner of his mouth down in a frown.

“Or we could go with pigtails.”

The frown grew more pronounced, an obvious chide for Clint to take this more serious.

“Well, we could always cut it.”

“No.” The word was short, decisive. Clint raised his hand into the air, palm out, placating.

“Ok. Long it is, but if you want my help, you gotta use your words. What do you want me to do?”

“I just - I want to be who he remembers....” Bucky’s face lost the pout,  tone going hesitant.  “Like who I was…”

Clint swallowed with a click. Of course. Of course it was about Steve. “You know he remembers you, James. And besides, you haven't hardly aged a day, recognition isn’t going to be an issue.”

That wasn’t exactly true.  Up close there were lines beginning to show at the corner of Bucky’s eyes and bracketing down from his mouth.  He still looked like a man in his twenties, but much of the fresh-faced youth so favored by the history books had been honed to sharper edges under Hydra's treatment like a wetted blade. Clint thought the changes were just as beautiful as they were heartbreaking- a different kind of scar left by the hands of others and the passage of time.  

“But I can’t be him… I can’t be what he remembers…” Bucky leaned back more fully, pressing his weight against Clint as if grounding himself in the touch.

“Hey, now.” When Bucky refused to look back up, Clint squeezes his hip, urging him to turn around and face Clint head on rather than talking to a reflection.. “Who you are today, right now, is what is important.  No one is expecting you to be the same.  I don’t care about the ways you’ve changed.  Steve isn’t going to either. He’s a smart kid; he will be happy to get you anyway he can.  So you, just. Be. You.”

Clint poked a finger into Bucky’s chest with each word for emphasis and called up the brightest smile he could muster. It was worth it when Bucky smiled back, almost. It a small thing, barely a curve, but the darkness was fading from his eyes, so it would have to be a win.   

Bucky caught Clint’s wrist, and brought the hand up to rub his check along the curving edge of Clint’s palm like a cat.  He didn’t say anything else, just turned back around to inspect his reflection.  

The continued proximity was causing nerves to flutter deep in Clint’s gut, so he retreated back to his position by the door. It provided a better vantage anyways for when Bucky pulled the band out from his hair with a decisive tug, letting the dark strands fall free, and fluffing them back into volume with his fingertips.

It suited him, the barely controlled chaos of dark silk.  Not that Clint didn’t find the tiny little bun adorable, but this was what he saw in his mind’s eye when his thoughts drifted back to Bucky: the classic looks only accented by the cacophony of hair, eyes brought into even higher resolution at the contrast.

Clint gave himself a mental kick, shifting against the door.  It wasn’t his place to pick a look he liked best; Bucky wasn’t his to dwell on like that.  The movement pressed the wrapped package poorly concealed in his back pocket against his hip.  It was a good reminder. Now was as good of a time as any.

“Before we go -” Clint pulled the small package from his back pocket.  The phone had been shoddily wrapped in the remnants of one of Kate’s brown paper grocery sacks and bound with a strip of nylon he had cut free from the cargo net the tree had crossed the border in.  It had seemed fitting at the time, but now Clint just felt silly about the whole thing.  Nothing to be done about it now, Clint held the little package out to Bucky.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, mouth pulling in confusion as he looked at Clint and the small gift through the reflection in the mirror.

“What’s that?”

Clint waggled the phone in Bucky’s direction, “It’s Christmas. Just open it, okay?”

Bucky turned, hesitant, and carefully took the offered gift as if retrieving a live grenade.  Flipping it over gently in his hands, he traced a fingertip along the sharpie scrawl of **_James_ ** that Clint had written out in the upper corner.  

“Go on-”, Clint urged.  

Bucky carefully undid the bow in the netting, coiling the makeshift ribbon around his fingers for safekeeping, and then began to pop the tape holding the paper. It was the most delicate display of gift opening Clint had ever before been privy to.

As the paper fell away, Bucky looked down at the phone, face creasing deeper in confusion.  

“It’s a phone.” Clint supplied, unnecessarily.

Bucky looked up at him, mouth twisted in a frown. “I know what it is. Why did you get me one?”

“Well…” Clint crammed his hands down into his pockets, shuffling his feet.  This was not going the way he had planned.  “I figured that you might… you know… need one.”

Bucky just stared, brows furrowed for a minute. For all the world, Clint felt like he was missing something important.

“See, if you touch here-”Clint leaned forward and reached out, intent on pushing one of the buttons on the display, but Bucky swatted his hand away, pulling the phone in towards his chest. Clint huffed and rocked back on his heals.  “Fine. Do it yourself.”

Bucky turned the phone over again, and then began to click his way through screen after screen on the little piece of machinery.  From this angle Clint couldn’t see what all he was doing, but whatever it was, it was done with surety and confidence, and nothing at all like the fumbling hours it took Clint earlier in the morning to even add his own damn number.

“It’s one of Stark’s new toys. Shouldn’t ever have to charge it, signal no matter where you go, no one can ping it, all sorts of other…. stuff....” Clint trailed off lamely. Obviously he should have brushed up on the spec if he was wanting to provide a tech rundown. This just really wasn’t his thing. “I put my number in there - the cell and the hard wired one - and Kate’s is in there to, just, you know, in case….”

Bucky looked back up at that, “You put your numbers in there?”

“Well, yeah.” Clint felt his cheeks flush with color. “I’m not trying to get rid of you, you know.”

Bucky’s entire demeanor changed at the reassurance. He made an inarticulate noise of assent or acknowledgement or some other prompt Clint couldn’t put his finger on, and then went back to fiddling with the phone.  

Just when Clint opened his mouth to ask if he was ready to go, Bucky brought the phone back up, back pointed directly at Clint’s face.  There was a brilliant flare of light, and Clint’s vision was filled with lense flares.  That thing was _bright._

“What was that?” Clint asked, rubbing at his still flash blinded eyes.

“ID picture.” Bucky spun the phone around to show the snapshot of a cross-eyed, slightly out of focus, bewildered looking Clint.

“Awww, no. Come on. You can’t use that.”

“Too late.”

“Seriously. Take another.” Clint snatched at the phone, even as Bucky leaned back, arm going up over his head as he leaned the small of his back against the sink, going for maximum distance.  Clint pressed in further, pressing one hand against Bucky’s chest to reach up with the other, trying to use the extra height and inches of wingspan to his advantage. “Come on. Let me have a little dignity here.”

“Nope.” Bucky drawled the word out into a pair of syllables, popping the second loudly.  Clint felt a booted foot catched against the back of his calf. With a tug, Bucky sent him toppling forward.  Clint only barely caught his hands against the edge of the sink, but it was the arm looped tightly around his waist which had kept him from completely faceplanting against the glass.  

The sprawl had left him pressed shoulder to hip against Bucky, one of his legs slotted in between powerful thighs.  The slant of their positions highlighted the difference in height, and Clint could feel hot puffs of breath licking over his collarbone.  

Before he could figure out how to disentangle himself without adding any further embarrassment, Bucky pressed up on his toes, his entire body rolling sinuously against Clint’s.  Clint didn’t dare move, not even to turn his head when he could swear he felt the slide of lip against the edge of his ear.  In a voice so low, so deep that Clint felt the vibrations through Bucky’s chest rather than each articulation of the words, Bucky issued the worst sort of dare.

“Make me.”

Clint’s eyes shut of their own volition, and a shiver raced its way down his spine.

He couldn’t do this. God how he wanted, _ached_ , and it wasn’t right. He couldn’t take the choice from Bucky. Clint had to keep telling himself that.  If this was as real as he hoped it would be, then Bucky would be back.  He could go out into the world - spend time with Steve, be around other people, and if he still wanted to come back, then he could, and Clint would be there waiting with open arms.

If he didn’t, well, it would suck on a _cosmic_ level, but it would be infinitely worse if Clint let himself have a taste only to never have it back. Clint wouldn’t survive going back to being _just friends_. Hell, he wasn’t sure he would survive it only ever being friends, but he would deal with that one day at a time.

Clint cleared his throat, righting himself and taking a hasty step back, forcibly pulling himself free.  Bucky only clung for a moment, but ultimately didn’t fight the choice. “Right then. Not like there haven’t been worse ones taken of me.” Clint hated how his voice shook. “Time to head out.”

Bucky just watched him assessingly, like this was another test that Clint didn’t stand a chance to pass. With a press of his mouth, Bucky gave a sharp nod and then brushed his way past Clint and out of the bathroom and down the stairs.  All the light and laughter was gone.

 _Better and better, Barton._ Clint scrubbed his hands over his face and followed after.

 

* * *

 

Clint slid from the cab, and as always, looked up at the stretch of the tower.  

It was no different that last night, or any of the hundreds of time he had done the same thing prior, but now the sight of the building made his skin crawl with unease.  It was no longer a symbol of the family he had fallen into; instead, it just put a giant steel and glass exclamation mark on everything he stood to lose.  It took every ounce of willpower Clint had to not just nope his way on out of this, slide back into the cab, and take them both home.

The entire cab ride had been tense - Clint replaying the scene in the bathroom on repeat in his head.  He knew Bucky kept looking over at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to try to participate in a conversation.  All he had to do was say something.  Anything  That was it.  Anything to cut the mood, but Clint couldn’t for the life of him figure out what to say. Any option his brain supplied might make things better, but they could also make it so much worse, and that was a risk that Clint just couldn’t take.

The opportunity for anything at all passed when Bucky joined him on the sidewalk, the cab door slamming shut like a funeral bell.  Clint gave himself a mental shake. _Get over it, Barton_. This was being melodramatic, even for him. It wasn’t like he would never see Bucky again. He wouldn’t be gone from his life entirely, things were just… changing. Change was fine. Change happened.

Yeah. Fuck that. Change sucked.

Clint blew out a loud breath. Patience. The sooner he got this started, the sooner he could get it over.

“Ok. Let’s do this.”

Clint jogged up to the main lobby doors, pausing when they slid open with a hiss.  He tossed his arms wide, bending just slightly at the waist with a flourish, ushing Bucky inside before him.  So he was overcompensating; Give him a break. “After you.”

Clint held the pose a moment. A moment longer. A moment longer still.

No Bucky.

Clint looked up, still holding the pose, quip poised on the edge of his tongue. The sidewalk was empty.  

“James?” Clint straightened, looking around; he thought they were over this random disappearance crap.

Clint walked back down the row of steps, calling out again. Still no answer. He jogged all the way back to the curb, looking quickly left and right.  There was the normal bustle of city activity, but no signs of anything amiss and no indication of Bucky’s departure.  

Where the hell had he gone? Bucky had been fine. Well, fine enough.  Sure he was a bit tense at the loft, and maybe a smidge more silent than normal in the cab, and maybe he was a little twitchy after whatever the hell that had been in the bathroom, but that could easily be explained by … ohh... _damn_. Clint scrubbed at his face. Of course Bucky wouldn’t have been fine with all of this. Clint had been so wrapped up in his own angst that he had missed everything else.

Either option was bad.  If Clint had been reading it wrong, and it was just Bucky playing around, trying to relax under the strain of the coming events, then it was a cold rebuff right before the main cause of the stress. The very opposite of supportive.  

If he had been reading it right, and it was the open invitation for more that everything prior sure felt like had been building towards, than rather than articulate the decision to wait, Clint had just rebuked him. A cold hard **_no_** to a man who had just been openly sharing his own self-doubt.

_Clint Barton, thy name is idiot._

Just as Clint pulled his own cell from his pocket, ready to start calling and begging every sort of apology, he registered the deep rumble of a motorcycle pulling up at the curb. The line rang once and then went silent. Clint tried again. Same result. Fuck.

It wasn’t until someone began repeating his name, loudly, that he looked up, coming back into the moment. Steve was sitting astride a monsterous black bike, idling heavy enough that Clint could feel the vibration of the engine all the way down to his bones.

“Everything ok?”

_Sure! Everything is great! I just lost your best friend because I couldn’t see past my own problems, you know, the friend I was supposed to be helping out and bringing back, but I fucked that up, so just another day, amirite?_

“Yup. Everything’s good.”

Steve nodded, but didn’t quite look like he bought it. “I’m going to go park the bike. You about to head up?”

“Ummm…” No. Clint needed to try to find Bucky, to apologize, to reassure him that everything would be fine, to bring him back and deposit him with people, people much better suited to the care and feeding of supersoldiers than Clint could ever hope to be.

“Why don’t you walk up with me? I’ve run across some new information about a site that might be worth taking a look into, and I have a pretty good feeling that Stark is going to put an embargo on all work talk at the dinner table.”

“I’ve actually got…” Clint’s words trailed off as Steve’s face fell. Great. More guilt. He could not win for losing. Clint tried not to sigh as he rubbed at the back of his neck, hesitation evident. It wasn’t like he was going to be able to find Bucky in the city anyways, not until he was ready to come back on his own terms. At least this time he had a phone. “Sure, why not.  At least if I’m with you, Stark can’t give me shit for being late.”

As much as Clint didn’t want to feel good about the choice, he couldn’t help it when Steve’s expression brightened, face splitting in a wide smile. Clint walked over, swinging a leg across the bike and settling down with his knees bracket Steve’s hips, trying to keep a mile in between them, just incase Bucky was still out there watching.

The big bike rumbled away from the curb, accelerating out quickly into the crowded street and curving without slowing around the corner.  

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know. It sounds plausible, but it is a pretty thin lead. I have some contacts in Romania who might be able to-”

Clint was cut off with a yelp when the door to the private common’s area was thrown open and the shrill trumpet of a noisemaker sounded directly in his face.  The tail of the toy unfurled out with the crescendo of noise to whap him across the end of his nose.  Clint went cross-eyed tracking the motion and had to blink several times to focus properly on Tony’s grinning face.

Clint reached up to bat the plastic mouthpiece from between Tony’s lips.  The man didn’t even give him the satisfaction of looking affronted at its loss, “You know those are meant for New Years, right, Stark? Not Christmas?”

“Festive is festive.” Tony gave a shrug, and backed up far enough to allow them to enter the room. “Glad you and Grand Dad could make it.”

Steve completely ignored the jab. “Thank you for inviting us.  This is lovely.”  

Lovely was an understatement. The room had been completely redecorated in honor of Christmas - one of the smaller trees from the party relocated to sit in a corner and the majority of the living room furniture cleared out to make room for the beautifully set table, complete with seating for nine.  Everything was elegant, understated, and obviously owed its style to Pepper’s influence.

“Well. Don’t just stand there. Come in. Eat. Drink. Be Merry.” Tony quickly divested them of their coats, pitching them haphazardly across the back of a nearby chair.  He used the motion to turn to Clint, brows raised in exaggerated question.

Clint just shook his head. There wouldn’t be enough time to explain it, not like Clint even knew what words to use anyways.

Tony pursed his lips in a frown, eyes heavy on Clint, before he turned back around, solemnity gone. “Well then. Now that the Late Larrys have made it to the party, why waste time? Ladies and gentlemen, let’s eat! There will be plenty of time after for revelry.”

Clint looked around, surprised that he and Steve were the last to arrive. It was a small group, only the eight of them.

“Are we missing someone?” Steve asked, looking questioningly at the empty, unmarked ninth place setting to Clint’s left.  

Tony cleared his throat. Clint was impressed; Tony didn’t even cut him a look.  “No. Apparently not.

They were saved from any additional questions by the caterers rolling a veritable mountain of food into the room on no less than six laden down carts.

Clint used the momentary distraction to pull back out his phone, hastily pressing the speed dial. Same as last time. A single ring and then a disconnect.

He looked back up to notice that everyone else was already seated at the table. Clint held up his phone, wiggling it in indication. “Kate.” It was a useless lie, no one had ever asked, but it made Clint feel better regardless. His failings with Bucky were his own shame.

He quickly moved over to take his place on Natasha’s right.  No sooner had his ass hit the chair,  Tony clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously. “Alright party people.”  

He grabbed up the glass of red wine which had appeared at the table, raising it high in toast, gesturing exaggeratedly for everyone else to follow suit. “Here’s to making it another year. Some of us did better than others, but no need to all quibbley over who beat out who.” He looked pointedly to Clint, raising an eyebrow meaningly. Clint had to tell himself that it would be rude to flip him the bird on Christmas.  “Instead, lets considering it a Christmas Miracle we all made it here in one piece!”

Tony gestured the glass out, clinking it loudly against Steve’s across the table. “Without further ado, drink up and eat. We’ve earned it.”

 

* * *

 

Clint tried to enjoy himself. He really did. The food was wonderful, the best he had eaten in ages.  The company was even better - everyone smiling and laughing and feeling like more like a family than he would have believed possible for their rag-tag team to evolve into.  None of that mattered though. Clint knew he was only poking at the offerings, barely participating in the conversation, and checking his phone every chance he could.

He had called Bucky’s cell no less than a dozen times, discretely (well, he knew that Natasha noticed, but the rest of them seemed largely ignorant to the action) dialing with the phone hidden in his lap.  Everytime the phone showed connection, Clint’s heart would lodge in his throat. The first time it had gone past the single ring, hope had bloomed in his chest only to be crushed back down when the _Mailbox has not been established; Press 2 to leave a message_ flashed across the screen and the call disconnected.  It had been doing that every other time he had tried since then.

With each dropped call, Clint was growing more concerned.  He shouldn’t have come to dinner. He should have told Steve no and gone looking. He should have said something in the cab. He should have done something in the loft. So many should haves; so much regret.

As the wait staff cleared what had to be at least the sixth course of food, Clint took the opportunity to stand from the table. He need to go try another call. He needed to leave a voicemail. Even if Bucky wasn’t picking up the phone, maybe he would check his messages.

Clint hadn’t made it two steps from the table before Natasha’s hand darted out to snag Clint’s wrist.  He looked down to meet her concerned eyes.  

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just out of sorts.  It’s fine.”

“ _Everything_?” She emphasized the question with a squeeze of wrist.

Clint looked back over his shoulder at the rest of the group,  still chatting and laughing and for all the world enjoying the Christmas cheer, making sure no one was paying them any mind. “Close enough. Made a mistake today; worried about… others… suffering for it.”  

She curved her hand to lace her fingers with his.  Clint brought their combined hands up to press a chaste kiss to the back of her knuckles. “I’ll work it out; I always do. Just have to figure out how.”

“I know you do, but that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”  Clint looked down at her with a smile and gentle released her hand.  

“So long as you know.”  She took the cue, leaning back in her chair, not quite balancing it on two legs, but close. “Whatever you are about to go do, I would hurry up. I’m pretty sure Tony is about to bring out the desert.”

“Roger that.” Clint took his own life into his hands, and reached out to ruffle her softly curling hair.  He hadn’t even even made it halfway, before she had twisted to the side, moving without drawing any attention to the motion. It seemed like a minor reaction, until he felt the spike of a heel against the bend of his knee - that was more along the lines of what he expected.  She cocked a single eyebrow, a challenge for him to go ahead and try, while being completely unaware of the influx of feelings she had stirred up; it was so reminiscent of the events earlier in the day that the cloud of guilt was only getting worse.

Clint raised his hands in defeat, feigning a smile more for his own benefit than hers, and headed out of the room.  There was a small executive style bathroom just down the back hallway that would serve the purpose.  

No sooner had he closed the door, than the phone was out of his pocket. It rang the same as last time, but before the message even had a chance to show, Clint mashed the “2” key.  

At the beep, the words just began to pour out. “James! Come on. Please pick up. We need to talk. I need to explain… fuck… just,  listen.” Clint took a ragged breath. He should have planned this out in advance. “This is not how I should be doing this.”

Clint began to pace, long strides eating up the tiled floor. “I’m sorry. For earlier. I haven’t been handling any of this well… I like you, okay? And I didn’t want to push that on you. I’m shit at reading signals, and I didn’t want you to stop being my friend just because I got it in my head you were interested when you aren’t and -”

The rambling mess of a speech was interrupted by a shrill chime. Clint pulled the phone from his face to read the _Message Delivered_ now printed across the screen. That was bad. Bad bad bad.

Clint slammed the phone down on the counter, not noticing when it skittered away and off the edge, and spun the knobs to bring the sink to full pour.  Without waiting for the water to warm, Clint pressed both wrists under the spray, letting the cold rush of water cool his overheated skin.  The desired result not being achieved fast enough, Clint let the water pool in his cupped hands, bringing them up to splash across his face. It was a shock to the senses and Clint was finally able to draw a deep, full breath.  

Clint stripped the decorative little hand towel from its hook and mopped at his face. Not bothering to rehang the towel, he braced his hands on the edge of the sink, and shut his eyes.  Okay. So Bucky didn’t answer. That didn’t mean anything. So what if Clint had just left a message that would make an pre-teen cringe. Everything was going to be fine.  Clint just had to be patient and -

“Excuse me, sir.” Jarvis’s voice echoed through the tiled space. “Your presence has been requested in the commons area.”

Clint’s grip tightened on the porcelain. “Tell them I will be there in just a minute.”

“But, sir -”

“If they want dessert so bad they can start without me. Tell Tony to eat or wait, I don’t care. Despite what he thinks, he is _not_ the nucleus.”

“I will, sir, but, it is quite important you return to the common room as soon as possible. We seem to suddenly have an extra guest.  It has not… been handle well.”

 _Extra guest_.

Clint’s head snapped up, eyes going wide and wild in the reflection from the mirror. Ohh, shit. _James_.

 

* * *

 

Clint sprinted back down the hall. _Shit Shit Shit_. Of all the time in the world to go to the damn bathroom.  He slid around the corner, grabbing at the wall to control the skid and came face to face with… He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

The scene was a frozen tableau of barely leashed chaos, the only sound the dull echo of ragged breathing.

Bucky stood just inside the room, head lowered, muscles drawn taut, both hands curved into fists. Despite the menace practically dripping from every pore, he looked none the worse for the wear than when Clint had last seen him on the sidewalk. The same could _not_ be set for the door leaning drunkenly on its hinges, framing his heaving shoulders.  There was splintered wood spread across the floor in a shrapnel blast at least five feet wide.

The rest… the rest was no better. More than half of the table was vacant, chairs either abandoned or tipped over entirely in haste.  

Pepper was softly glowing, standing, still at her spot.  There was a palpable heat creating a rippling mirage where her fingertip were digging into the tabletop. Not a good sign. Tony had both hands up, looking as contrite and placating as Clint had ever seen him. That was even more concerning; neither of those were descriptors Stark wore well. Rhodey had one hand on Tony’s shoulder, clearly trying to pull him to cover, and a pistol aimed directly at Bucky held in the other. Clint was actually surprised that was the only weapon in obvious sight.

Across the expanse of table, closer to where Clint had burst back into the room,  Sam was positioned between a slack-jawed, wide-eyed, shell-shocked Steve Rogers.  He had one hand on Steve’s chest.  The effort was most likely moot; Steve looked as rooted to the spot as if he had gone back down into the arctic.

The only movement was Sam’s head swiveling back and forth between the threat posed by Bucky and that of Rhodey’s drawn gun, as if he wasn’t sure which was ultimately going to cause the most damage. Clint had to give him some credit; the man had the right instincts.  

The two who had remained seated were as just as diverse set of reactions.  Natasha’s face was the bored mask of uninterested indifference she defaulted back to when assessing a potentially problematic situation. Bruce, the man who was the closest to the action logistically speaking, had his hands clasped together on the tabletop, watching with interest, but no sign of strain. Clint really, _really_ hoped it stayed that way.

Here went nothing. Clint took a step into the room, and it was as if his presence unpressed a pause, the room springing back into motion.

Tony flapped his hands at Rhodey, finally dislodging the hold.  He smoothed down the line of his jacket, tugging at the lapels sharply.

“Ahh. So good of you to join us! There was a slight miscommunication and things may have escalated just a smidge.” Tony looked away from Clint to address Bucky directly. “See. No harm.  Birdbrain is just as you left him, not a single feather out of place.”

Clint could see Bucky grind his jaw. Some of the threat bled out of his stance, but the posture didn’t relax.  

Clint stepped further in, coming abreast of where Natasha was still sitting at the table.  “Why don’t we start at the beginning.”

“After you left - which I noticed, by the way, you thought I didn’t notice, but I did - I made the executive decision to let them bring the desert. When your absence was pointed out, I may or may not have implied that you weren’t necessary and that we would be better off without you.  I was simply referencing you being as far away from the cheesecake tray as possible meant a better selection for the rest of us, but I can see now how that could have been taken to a different meaning. Before I could even point out my brulee of choice,” He tipped his head in Bucky’s direction, “Metallica over there busted through my previously lovely antique door, demanding to know what we had done with you. I found it prudent to wait for your arrival before we took the discussion any further.”  

All the eyes in the room were back on Clint.  There was a soft squeeze just below his knee then a press press tap, press press press.  It had to be coming from Natasha, though from the corner of her eye she hadn’t appeared to move a muscle.  Again with the pattern - press press tap, press press press.

Just as she went to start it over for a third time, Clint’s brain caught up to the program. _Go._ She was telling him to go. Right.

With determined strides Clint rounded the table, the rest of the group falling away from his notice.  He stopped just before Bucky, ducking a shoulder and cocking his head to look under and up, trying to catch the man’s eyes.

“Hey. You with me.” No response. “James?”

Bucky’s eyelashes fluttered and he looked up.  Clint offered him a weak smile and put both of his hands to Bucky’s shoulders, grounding him with the touch. “There you are. You ok?”

“I….” Bucky’s eyes were a bit distant, glazed from their normal sharpness with a patina of confusion. Clint didn’t know if it was better or worse than the barely bridled rage. “I don’t know why…”

“Shhh.” Clint raised the hand from Bucky’s metal shoulder to cup the side of his face.  “It’s fine. Like Tony said. A misunderstanding.  You wanna tell me what happened?”

“I thought something happened to you.” Clint felt a hand fist in the center of his shirt. “You left with Steve, and then there were all the calls and then I heard them talking about you being gone and…” Bucky broke off, eyes pinching at the corner as he looked away.

“I just went with Steve to park the bike and I was only calling to make sure you were ok. You had me worried after the houdini stunt when we got here. And to apologize, for earlier.”

“I thought they had let them take you.”

“Take me where?”  Clint was terrible at this. It was just one bad choice after another.  What could possibly have made him think that he was qualified to deal with this.

Bucky just gave a shrug. “Anywhere. Not here. Where I couldn’t reach you.”

“I’m not going anywhere; you can’t get rid of me that easy.” Wrong thing to say. The hand in his shirt twisted tighter and Clint felt the pop again his sternum as one of the buttons gave way. “And they aren’t going to let anything happen to me either.”

Clint gestured with his head back towards the group, as he let his hand slide from Bucky’s face down to his neck, suddenly incredibly aware again of all the sets of eyes focused in his direction.  “They’ve spent too much time pulling my ass out of the fire to let something happen to me now. That goes double for on Christmas.”

“I’ve fucked this up.”

Clint laughed, sharp and quick, surprised by the return to frank candor. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure that they are going to forgive you. They’ve put up with my shit for long enough with pretty minor complaining - functioning doesn’t have to mean functional, remember.”

Bucky gave a nod, released his death grip on Clint’s shirt, and squared his shoulders.  It was a pale imitation of the confidence Clint had seen in the days prior, but it was a start.

“Since you came, you want to meet everyone?”

At the barest hint of a nod, Clint gave his shoulder one last squeeze. Clint pivoted so he could position himself at Bucky’s side, the hand that had been on his neck sliding around so an arm was draped companionably across his shoulder.

The rest of the group was still positioned exactly as they had been, with the exception of the gun having disappeared from view. Small favors, that.

“Apologies for the confusion, but everything now appears to be sorted out. I think some of you probably need an introduction.” Clint bumped into Bucky’s shoulder lightly and then began to point his way around the group, moving clockwise, and trying his damndest to act like nothing strange at all had just happened.  Good thing Clint had lots of practice.

“The lovely lady in the gold is Pepper.  She is Tony’s conscience and the only reason anything around here runs like it should - don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” Pepper gave a sweet smile and a soft wave.

“Next is Tony Stark. Nothing worth mentioning there.” Tony popped his head back, feigning affront while Clint tried for a cheeky grin.

“The man in blue,” Clint purposefully avoiding any mention of the firearm, “would be Colonel James Rhodes. He is the reason that Tony has survived long enough to see his forty-fourth birthday.” Rhodey  rolled his eyes over the scoff of outrage from Stark and gave Bucky a small salute.  It was a bold choice. Bucky didn’t return the gesture, but he did tip his head in acknowledgement after only the briefest of hesitation.

“I believe you have already met Natasha.”  

She gave a small, feline smile, inclining her head slightly. “Hello, James.”

“Natalia.” It was the first words that Bucky had spoken towards the rest of the group, and surprised Clint enough that he almost let his hand fall free.  There was weight there, in the use of the name, _that_ name, and Clint couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe there was more to the story there than he knew. Didn’t really matter now; if there was, it was a question for another time.

Clint skipped over what had been his empty chair.

“Rounding out the trio of resident fliers, is Sam Wilson.  You two might also already be acquainted.”

Sam huffed out a laugh, “Yeah. We’ve met.” There was some irony to the tone, but no bitterness.  Clint had already liked the man, but his respect ratched up another few pegs.

Clint pointedly skipped over Steve.

“Last but not least, Doctor Bruce Banner.” Clint let that introduction start and end with the name. Bruce was his own man and Clint wasn’t going to classify him as a footnote to his conditional  a la Jekyll and Hyde.  

Bruce smiled warmly. “Glad you decided to join us for dinner.”

Clint turned his head to look at Bucky.  He seemed to be holding up alright, eyes a touch wide, but still in the moment.  Without looking away, Clint addressed the group. “Everyone, I would like for you to meet James Barnes. James, meet the Avengers.”

The use of Bucky’s name was the final straw.  Steve took a handful of staggering steps forward, eyes wide and hopeful. “Bucky?”

Bucky held Clint’s gaze for a long moment, before turning to look at Steve and giving him a sad smile. “Hi, Stevie.”

Steve was shaking his head, smile spilling over his features. “But.. how… I’ve been looking…”

Bucky ducked his head, hiding his own matching expression. “I know.  I’ve… I had something that needed to be sorted out but now…”  He gave a shrug, eyes looking up through lashes and mouth pulling at a corner into a little grin.

Clint took that as his cue.  He let his arm slip from around Bucky’s shoulders and took a small step back.

“You’re really back. You’re really you.” Steve sounded amazed, hopeful, and so very, _very_ young.

“Not quite the same, but close enough.”

“And you’re here to stay?”

Bucky took a deep breath. “If you’ll have me.”

Steve closed the distance in three long strides, and engulfed Bucky in a hug.  Bucky stood frozen at the sudden embrace for all of a heartbeat before he melted down into Steve’s arms, wiggling his own arms free to return the hug tight enough that even Clint could hear the soft whirring of recalibrating machinery.  Neither man was standing wholly on their own volition, balancing only precariously against one another like a faulty house of cards.  

Steve hunkered down, pressing his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, shoulders wracked with barely checked sobs.  He was saying something, but it was too broken by emotion to be intelligible. Bucky turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his check to Steve’s temple, petting softly at his hair and murmuring words that Clint didn’t even try to hear.  

Clint swallowed with a click and looked away. He ran a hand through his hair to cover up the motion of wiping away the moisture pooling in the corner of his eyes. He felt dirty, practically voyeuristic being witness to the reunion.  

There was no reason to get all angsty over it.  This was what he had set out to do.  From the very first day in the woods, this was about bringing a lost soul in from the cold.  All the baggage Clint had added into the mix didn’t matter; the fact that Clint wasn’t smart enough to not get attached was beside the point.

Bucky was where he belonged. Clint could take solace in that. It would have to be enough.

“No!” The vehemence of the word, crackled like a whip. Steve pulled back just enough to look Bucky in the face, eyes intense.  Whatever Bucky had been saying had struck a cord.  “No one is going to take you.” Clint wanted to laugh at the use of that phrase coming full circle in the evening, but couldn’t make it happen around the pain in his chest. “You aren’t going anywhere. If they want you they will have to come through me-”

“Stevie-” Bucky’s words were kind, pleading, as gentle as Clint had ever heard them, “it is what it is. There has to be someone to blame, and like it or not, I’m it.”

“Actually,” Pepper spoke up, pausing just briefly to wipe away a tear that was spilling from the corner of her eye, “We’ve been working on that.  Since you first starting looking for him, actually, and with renewed effort when…” Her eyes cut quickly to Clint,  “certain recent events were brought to our attention.  Now, there are no guarantees, but -”

Tony cut in, “- If we throw enough money in the right direction, Heavy Metal should be able to walk free.”

Steve spun, partially releasing his hold on Bucky to gape in their direction. He looked liked like all of his Christmases had come at once, while open disbelief was written over Bucky’s face. Steve heaved a shuddering breath, and Bucky clung to him just a bit tighter, instinctively bearing the weight.

Pepper frowned at the interruption, waited for Tony to finish his sentence, and then continued on like nothing had happened, “early reports do show that Mr. Barnes stands a very good chance of being pardoned for his alleged crimes.  I can’t guarantee the extent of the amnesty, but at worst, I do think the charges would be relatively minor.”

She turned to face the pair, taking a step closer, but not invading their space. “It will not be pretty, and it will not be quick, but, if you trust us, I do think we can make it right.”

Steve looked from Pepper to Tony and back again.  “You guys have been working on this since DC?”

Steve looked like he wanted to hug Pepper, to hug Tony, hell, to hug everyone in the damn room, but that would have required him leaving Bucky’s side and Clint was pretty certain that moving away wasn’t going to be happening any time soon.

Tony gave a dismissive shrug.  “Well, odds were good you were going to find him sooner or later. Wanted to make sure we had all the bases covered.”

Clint assumed that meant there was also a contingency plan to ensure that Bucky would never again have seen the light of day if it had been more of the Winter Soldier and less of James Barnes that had been recovered.  Probably best not to pose that question at this very moment.

Clint looked over to Bucky to find the man’s eyes already on him, heavy with concern. Bucky cut his gaze to Tony and then back to Clint.  There was a question there, so Clint mustered up as much of a smile as his fractured heart would allow and gave a weak thumbs up.  Tony would be good for his word. Between Steve and the near unlimited power that Stark Industries wielded, Bucky would be safe.

Bucky immediately relaxed, the last of the tension seeping from his bones as he leaded heavier into Steve’s embrace.

With the threat gone from Bucky’s frame, the rest of the group pressed forward, all talking and smiling and wiping misty eyes - it isn’t every day they got  to witness an actual fairy tale come true after all, now was it; seeing someone deserving get their Storybook ending, well, that was worth shedding a few tears over.

That was it. Clint was done. Done done done. If he didn’t get out of here now, _right now_ , he wasn’t going to survive this.  Clint might be a glutton for punishment, but even he had his limits. Watching the man he loved - yeah, he could admit it, loved - find his way home in the arms of someone else, someone who was a _friend_ , was well beyond that line in the metaphorical sand.

Clint backed towards the ruined door.  All the eyes in the room were on the embracing men and no one was paying any attention to Clint’s escape. No one, that is, except for Natasha.

She caught his eye just before he disappeared around the door.  Her mouth was pursed, eyes sad, and the disappointment over his retreat written across every feature.  She shook her head and brought her hand up close to her mouth, index and thumb tapping together lightly.

_Coward._

Yeah. Pretty much.  Clint Barton - king of wasted opportunity, emperor of bad decisions, coward supreme.

Clint didn’t bother to respond, the shame he knew he should be feeling drowned out beneath the crushing weight of loss.  He might be a coward for running away, but better a coward than a broken shell of a man jealous of Steve fucking Rogers.

He slunk around the door and off down the hallway.  As the elevator door pinged open, Clint looked back over his shoulder one last time. He couldn’t see them, of course, but he didn’t need to. His own imagination was more than willing to fill in the gaps.

With a deep exhale, Clint climbed into the elevator and pushed the button to the lobby.  Time to go home.

As the doors slid shut, he couldn’t help himself.  This might not be his story, might not be his happy ending, but he damn well could have the final words.  

“Merry fucking Christmas, Steve.  You’ve earned it.”    
  
  
  
  
  



	12. Day Twelve: After Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Twelve: In which Clint learns the meaning of Christmas.

Clint hoisted himself onto the rooftop and almost fell right back off again.

It had nothing to do with the cold - though Clint undoubtedly was that. Every since skulking away from dinner, he had been wandering the city despite the biting wind and frigid temperatures. Stubborn thy name was Barton. 

No money for a cab - his wallet was in the pocket of his coat, which conveniently, was still draped over the chair by Tony’s door. No phone to call Kate - who the fuck knew where that had gone or when he had lost it. Even the fifty cents he had scrounged up out the gutter had been promptly swallowed by the one working payphone he had come across because that right there was the perfect representation of his luck.

It wasn’t like it was that far, right? Just about twelve miles. What was twelve miles on Christmas night? Not like he had anything better to do.

The church bells had sounded out midnight hours ago by the time Clint trudged up to the front of his building. Despite the lateness of the hour, the cold set into his bones, and the soul deep exhaustion, he couldn’t bring himself to go up. It had nothing to do with the lack of keys - it wasn’t like that lock couldn’t be shouldered open with the smallest show of force- and everything to do with what was was waiting for him inside. Or, rather, what  _ wasn’t _ waiting for him inside.

Clint couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bring his feet to make the short walk up the steps and into the building. Fuck it. He found himself skirting around the edge building, to pull down the ladder of the near-side fire escape and climbing the stairs right on past his own window and up to the roof. If he went inside, that was conceding defeat. He might be a coward, but he wasn’t a quitter, as depressingly paradoxical as that might be.

He hadn’t bothered to look before levering himself over the edge, which was how he found himself in his current predicament. 

There, sitting in one of the battered deck chairs, elbows resting on his knees and eyes disapproving was the very thing Clint had been running from. 

Could he not catch a fucking break?

To make it worse, Bucky looked perfect and warm, sitting there wrapped in one of Clint’s coats and illuminated by the reddish glow of a space heater. 

Running wasn’t going to be an option. He had done that once, and that was more than enough. Nothing to do but soldier through this and hope for the best.

Clint shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shuffling forward across the roof. Before he had a chance to speak, Bucky beat him to the punch. “What good is a phone with your number in it if you aren’t going to fucking answer it?”

“I turned it off.” It was a shitty answer, but why start caring about that now.

“Liar.” Bucky picked something up off the ground at his feet and lobbed it with more force than strictly necessary in Clint’s general direction. Habit had Clint wrenching his hands free of his jeans to snag it from the air, though the numbness in his fingertips had him fumbling to grab hold. Clint bobbled it once, twice, like a cartoon bar of soap, before he finally managed to get it in his hold. 

It was his phone.

“Where did you get this?”

“Natalia found it in the bathroom.”

“How did she know it was there?”

It was a stupid question. Bucky gave it a fitting answer - he snorted. 

“Fair,” Clint mumbled more to himself than for Bucky’s benefit. “You been here long?”

Clint looked up just in time to catch the tail end of the shrug. “A while.”

“Why did you leave the party?”

“Why did you?” The question was challenging, cold, and had Clint’s heart thudding painfully in his chest. That was the million dollar question after all, wasn’t it?

Clint elected to ignore it. “Shouldn’t you be with Steve?”

“I don’t know should I?” 

“Are you just going to repeat my questions?”

“Probably - until you ask the right one.”

Clint curled both hands into fists, wishing desperately that Bucky would do anything besides just sit there and stare at him with the glass-eyed calculation of the Winter Soldier.

Clint tried to let the silence stretch, but couldn’t hold onto it. He had to do something to lighten the mood. “I told you that they would take you in.”

No response. 

“And that Steve would cry. I got that one right.”

Still no response.

“Stark offer you a job?”

Bucky was quiet long enough that Clint thought this one, too, was going to go unanswered. “Sam, actually.”

It surprised Clint enough that he gave a small bark of a laugh. “Seriously?” Bucky shrugged a shoulder. “Huh. Figures. I told you that he couldn’t look after Steve all the time, didn’t I? Just surprised he made a move on you that quick.”

Something about the phrase had Bucky’s mouth pulling in a mockery of a smile and he mumbled out something that sounded a bit like “at least someone did” though it was too soft for Clint to fully decipher the words.

Clint shoved a hand through his hair, growing agitated though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. All of the shit he was currently standing in was his own. “What are you doing here, James?”

“Up to you.” Bucky looked away, staring out over the city. “I wasn’t going to come back. I thought you made it pretty clear I shouldn’t -” Clint went to sputter out a denial, that Bucky was so far from the truth to be in a different orbit, but Bucky held up a hand, silencing him, “but when Natalia brought me your phone, she asked me if I have always had a thing for long-legged blondes with more heart than brains or if it was just a form of repentant masochistic to chose to love martyrs too selfless to ever take what they want.”

Bucky turned to look back at Clint, eyes direct. “She had a point. I do seem to have a type.”

He rubbed his metal hand across his jaw, plates rasping against the day’s growth of stubble. The sound had gooseflesh breaking out across Clint’s skin.

“There’s no arguing it. Steve is every bit my brother, blood or otherwise, and I love him for exactly what he is. Hell, I would follow him to the ends of the earth even though he doesn’t have the self-preservation that God gave a lemming, but -” Bucky gave a low, slow whistle through his teeth, as his hand traced around to pinch the back of his neck. “-he doesn’t hold a candle to you. Which only makes it worse, given how you are another matter entirely from a brother.”

Clint didn’t know what to do with any of that. Ever since Bucky had shown up in his life, he had felt terrifyingly off balance, unsure of himself in ways even Loki hadn’t been able to accomplish. That was, after all, what made giving up your heart so damn dangerous, wasn’t it? There was something in it though, something important that Clint was obviously missing, pressing in at the back of his brain and the edge of his heart.

Bucky surprised Clint further for by not bothering to wait for a response. “So I decided to give it one last shot. To give you a chance to actually ask the right question.” 

He gestured towards Clint’s hand, indicating the phone. 

Clint turned it over in his hands and toggled the power button. The illumination of the screen was almost blinding in the dark. Twelve missed calls. One voicemail. 

Clint swiped the missed call notification and punched in his passcode. Well… tried to. It took him three tries to get it right, fingers shaking from cold or nerves or some combination of the two; Clint could no longer tell the difference. 

All the missed calls were from Bucky’s number. Every last one of them. No one else. He looked back up to Bucky but the other man was still just as motionless as he had been. If there was any emotion at all on his face, it was hidden in the play of shadow painted umber by the crimson light.

Clint toggled over to the voicemail page. One new message. Forty five seconds long. His thumb held poised above the play button, unable to work up the courage to complete the command. This was it. The point of no return. Once he pushed that button everything was going to be different, the tiniest little action sending ripples of change out into the dark.

He just stared at the phone until the creak of the chair drew his attention. Though Bucky didn’t appear to have moved prior to catching Clint’s eye, he did so now, raising a hand to roll his wrist about, his fingers painting a circle in the air and casting arcs of shadow across his features. 

Clint could take the hint. Get on with it.

_ Here goes nothing. _

With one last deep breath, Clint pressed the play button. Before he could bring it to his face, Bucky’s voice sounded over the speakers, tinny and distorted in the frigid air.

“ _ This isn’t talking. This is running. You are right, this isn’t how you should be doing this, and you haven’t been handling it well. Did it ever occur to you that I knew how you felt? _ ” Clint shuffled his feet uncomfortably, digging ruts into the dingy snow. The other man’s expression remained unchanged, his eyes as flat and emotionless as stone, so at odds with the heat in the words pouring from the phone. “ _ Did it ever occur to you to pay a little damn attention? I wasn’t being subtle. You said, before, that you didn’t want to make decisions for me. Well, don’t fucking do that now. That is what you are doing by running. You are making the choice for me. So, ask.”  _ There was a moment of silence on the line.  _ “Stop waiting.” _ More silence. “ _ Clint. Ask me what I want.” _

The line went dead. Bucky raised an eyebrow, rolling his head to the side, clearly waiting for the question.

“Did you plan this?” Clint was shit at following directions. 

With predatory grace, Bucky rose to his feet, heavy boots barely making a noise as he halved the distance to Clint, stepping far enough forward across the rooftop to trip a motion light. The sudden illumination haloed him into a spill of soft white light. Clint had been wrong. There was nothing of the Soldier at all in his eyes - it had merely been a trick of the blood-colored shadow and light. There was nothing flat there at all.

“Ask.”

“How am I different from Steve?” Clint wasn’t sure where that question came from, but suddenly it felt paramount, the most important question to ever trip unbidden from his lips.

Bucky tipped his head, barest hint of a smile showing as he clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Now you’re getting somewhere…”

“James.”

Bucky clucked his tongue again, finishing the motion by curling the tip of his tongue into the corner of his mouth. “Not a question.”

Clint swallowed, hard, unable to force the words Bucky wanted past the tightness in his throat and the hope bubbling up in his chest. If he was going to do this, it was going to be on his terms. “It’s still Christmas, you know.”

Bucky pressed the lips that Clint had been staring at for the past two weeks into a tight line, obviously reluctant to allow Clint to change the game. He searched Clint’s face for a long, heart stopping moment, but whatever he found there must have convinced him to play along. Rather than force the issue, Bucky closed the rest of the gap, sliding smoothly into Clint’s space. He ran his hand down Clint’s arm, touch featherlight, to tap metallic fingers against the face of Clint’s watch with a click. “It’s after midnight. Christmas is over.”

“Pfft” Clint was amazed he could force out the sound over the frenetic beating of his heart. “Same day if you haven’t gone to bed yet. It’s a rule.” 

“Is it now?”

“Yup.” Clint let the ‘p’ pop, stretching the word into two puckered syllables. Bucky’s eyes dropped back down his mouth. Clint took a gamble and tucked the tip of his tongue into the the corner of his mouth, mimicking Bucky’s early trick. Bucky followed the motion, jaw clenching ever so slightly in a tic. Jackpot. It was the last confirmation Clint needed. He might occasionally be a moron, but even he could eventually see the writing on the wall with enough prompting. 

Clint reached out to run his fingertips along Bucky’s cheekbone, still unbelieving that this was something he was going to be allowed to do, that he could actually  _ touch _ . “Santa might have been a smidgen late, but he came through in the end.”

“How so?” The words were silken, husky flirtation.

“I got a gift, didn’t I?”

Bucky scoffed softly, “I didn’t see anything with your name on it under the tree.”

“If this is really happening, then this is better than anything that could be tied up with a bow.”  _ Wow, Barton. That’s a bit much, even for you.  _ Clint registered the words coming out of his mouth, but couldn’t bring himself to care how corny they sounded, not with the way heat flared in Bucky’s eyes, pupils dilating further despite the near dark.

“Ask the question, Clint.” Clint’s name dripped from Bucky’s lips in a rumbling purr. “Ask me what I want.”

“Yeah...” Clint’s voice broke, coming out with a bit of a whine. Who had he been kidding, this was Bucky’s game, always had been. “I think I might be figuring it out.”

“Ask.” 

The air felt thick, suddenly overwarm despite the freezing temperatures. Clint’s blood was pounding in his ears, running thick and slow like molasses to pool in his gut, but he managed to force out the question.

“What do you want for Christmas?” 

“You.” Bucky breathed the word, dragging his lips across Clint’s cheek to whisper against the corner of his mouth.  “All I want for Christmas, is you.”

The words played in Clint’s brain. There was no way Clint had heard correctly. No way that this brave, beautiful, broken man could want him. 

Clint replayed them again, only this time they sounded at a much higher register. Didn’t matter. Bucky had actually said it. This was real and everything Clint wanted was coming true. 

Even as the smile spread across his features, the words played again for a third time, inexplicably, only this go around his brain supplied the accompaniment of an overly synthesized guitar.

“Seriously?” Clint couldn’t help it; despite everything he wanted, everything he was  _ aching for _ being right there, so very, very close, he sputtered out the question, trampling all over the moment. He reared back, shaking his head a bit manically, “Mariah Carey! Right now, here, you break out Mariah Carey?!? How do you even know that song? There is no way in hell that Mariah Freakin’ Carey was part of your mission programing. No way. You, sir, are a ---”

Clint’s rant was cut off when Bucky fisted a hand in Clint’s shirt, hauling him back in to press laughing lips to indignant ones. At the moment of contact, all the fight went out of Clint. It was everything the mistletoe had hinted at and so,  _ so  _ much more.

Bucky’s mouth was flame hot against Clint’s chilled skin, slick and confident, and beyond anything Clint could have  ever dreamed. It wasn’t until Bucky caught Clint’s bottom lip between his teeth, nipping sharply, that Clint got with the program. He brought a hand up to slide into Bucky’s hair, unable to resist the temptation that had been plaguing him for days, and tilted his head just so to change the angle. Clint knew he had it right when Bucky practically purred into his mouth. Bucky responded in kind by bringing a hand up to cup Clint’s jaw while the other settled against the small of Clint’s back to tug them flush together.

This was it. The rest of the world was over, as far as Clint was concerned. There would never be another moment in space or time to compare to this right here - being wrapped up in the Winter Soldier, kissing like the act was air, on a cold Christmas night.

They broke apart, both drawing shakey, panting breaths, and it was disarming how impossibly natural it felt for Clint to tip his head to the side, baring his throat for Bucky to nuzzle featherlight kisses against his skin. Clint felt safe, treasured,  _ happy _ . 

It was the last one that gave him pause. Happy rarely stuck. Hell, happy  _ never _ stuck. It was just wasn’t part of Clint’s luck. He had to know for certain. Had to hear the words. Clint leaned away, pushing lightly against Bucky’s shoulders. He didn’t want to do it, but he had to know. 

Bucky willingly took a step back, though his brows were drawn down in confusion. Clint momentarily lost everything he wanted to say at the sight of Bucky’s kiss slick mouth, bottom lip plump and swollen from Clint’s own. Clint caught himself pressing forward, intent on reclaiming it with his own.

“Wait.” Clint tore his gaze away, shaking his head sharply to clear his thoughts. He  drew a deep breath, but didn’t look back. He wasn’t brave enough to. “If we do this, I… I can’t be a one time thing. Or a test run. Or a bad decision... I just… I just can’t.”

“What makes you think that it would be like that?”

Ohh, lord. Clint was fucked. The sound of Bucky’s voice, deep and raspy, smoke and gavel, heat and sex, was going to be worse than the sight. Clint squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at his face, ignoring the sensitive drag against his own lips as he tried to stay on track. He could do this. He could have this conversation.

“You don’t like guys.”

Clint looked up just in time to catch Bucky rolling his eyes as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Why do you keep saying  _ that _ ?”

“Because…. that’s what the internet says….?” Clint answered haltingly. Now that he was saying it aloud, and in the presence of some pretty decisive evidence to the contrary, it did sound a bit ridiculous. 

Bucky huffed out a laugh, “And you believe everything you read on the internet?”

“Wha- no?” Clint answered, a bit indignant to cover the flush of embarrassment. “Not everything, but I think on this one there was a fair bit of precedent.”

“Is that your only objection? That you don’t want to do this because you think I am playing around to see if I could get behind being with someone with dick?”

That sentence had so many damn clauses Clint was lost before Bucky had made it halfway through, but he was pretty sure he followed the gist. Kinda. “Yes?”

“Then good.” Bucky hauled Clint back down, mouth sliding hotly against his, pressure of his tongue following the path. He pulled back just far enough to rasp, “History is wrong.”

Close enough. Clint knew he was grinning again, but couldn’t help it. Maybe sometimes things did go according to plan, they just took the long way round to get there. He had been right all along, all the way back in colder than fuck Canada. Step Four was going to be profit. So. Much. Profit.

Clint broke the kiss again, “So this isn’t a one time thing?”

Bucky growled, actually  _ growled _ , chasing Clint mouth with his own when Clint twisted his head away.

“So you are going to stay?”

“Yes.” Bucky bit down, hard on the bolt of Clint’s jaw. Clint couldn’t stop the moan, knees going weak, but he pressed on. 

“Because you like me?”

The growl became a whine. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not typically. Wanna make me?”

That, it seemed, was also the right question. 

Bucky wrapped one hand around Clint’s neck, tugging him back down while the other arm brought him close. Clint could feel every thud of Bucky’s heart, and would have sworn that it was beating in time with his own. 

“Never thought you were going to get with the program.” Bucky punctuated the words with tiny kitten nips across Clint’s jaw. “Want this more than air.”

That was it. It was time to go inside. Now. Yesterday. Immediately, it didn’t matter the time as long as he wasn’t out on this rooftop a moment longer. Clint backed them towards the service door.

He couldn’t have recounted a single step of the trip, brain split between committing every inch of Bucky’s mouth to memory and running his hands over every ridge and curve of hard won muscle and modified bit of flesh. 

Misjudging the distance in his distraction, Clint had them colliding with the closed door, slamming Bucky’s back hard against metal and practically caging him in between Clint’s arms. The weight of two bodies flexed the aged aluminum, sending out a sound - not all that unlike a gong - to echo down the stairwell.

Clint broke the kiss, every intention of apologizing, but Bucky pressed forward with a guttural moan and rolled the whole of his body against Clint inasmuch of a motion as their position would allow. If Bucky’s mouth had been a fever before, now it was a wildfire scorching across Clint’s skin, even as he tugged Clint’s shirt free from where it had still be neatly tucked into his pants.

Yeah. Time to be inside. Clint manhandled them back away from the door, and Bucky gave another strangled whine. That was definitely something that Clint needed to remember for later, but right in this moment there were more pressing matters - like getting inside so he could find a practical application for the knowledge.

He turned the handle and tugged. The door didn’t budge. He tried again. Still no dice.

Locked. Of course it was locked. 

Clint pulled his mouth from Bucky with a groan, pressing his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. The urgency of the previous moment dissipating like smoke, and though Clint mourned its loss, being pressed this close, able to just have the permission to hold Bucky in his arms and be held in turn was almost just as good. 

_ Turning into a sap, Barton. _ Yeah. Tell him about it.

Bucky just laughed, clear and bright and the most beautiful thing Clint had ever heard. He didn’t know if it was from the situation or if he had spoken the words aloud or something else entirely, but it didn’t matter. Anything to cause Bucky to make that particular sound was worth it. If Clint had his way, he would spend the rest of his life making sure of it.

“Come on, the window’s open.” Bucky ducked from beaneath Clint’s arms, snagging Clint’s hand in his own and pulling him towards the fire escape. His fingers were warm, strong, and Clint never wanted to let go. 

Clint only let him go a step, before he tugged him back, wrapping both arms around Bucky’s waist and fitting against him back to chest, keeping ahold of the the hand he had already claimed. Clint kept them marching, forward, taking wide, shuffling steps forward to compensate for having to step around Bucky’s feet.

He felt the other man laugh again as he nuzzled into that fall of hair, and the sound bounced deeper, more guttural when Clint placed a hot, open-mouth kiss against the nape of his neck. Filing that information in the growing store of ‘remember for later’, Clint took slight advantage now, mumbling against Bucky skin. “How long? How long have I been missing it?”

Bucky laced the metal fingers of his other hand through Clint’s remaining one, increasing the points of bodily contact. “A while.”

Clint nipped lightly. “You haven’t known me long enough to call it ‘a while’.”

Bucky rocked his hips back against Clint, in chide or possibly reward for the action, Clint didn’t care which. “Dunno. Didn’t notice the exact moment. Maybe since you brought me pizza or when your fool ass ran after me with the cops.” He broke off with a snort. “Or since you catapulted yourself onto the roof in your skivvies.”

“Ha! So that was you.”

Bucky craned his neck around, giving Clint a disbelieving look over his shoulder. “Who the hell else would it have been?”

Clint tipped his chin up, puffing out his chest which served a double purpose to put him into even closer contact. “Any number of other people.” Clint bounced his head. “I am a bit of a hero, you know.”

Bucky snorted again. “Keep telling yourself that, Hawkeye.” He softened the play insult by pressing up to drag his mouth across Clint’s. There was no way that Clint was ever going to get used to this.

Bucky spun in Clint’s arms, barely breaking the kiss, backing them up until his legs hit the ledge. Clint didn’t try to corral the whine when Bucky broke them apart and began to climb over and onto the fire escape.

T he brief separation allowed some of Clint’s higher brain function to kick back into gear. He shook his hand free and jogged back over to flip off the heater. When he turned around, Bucky had made it over the lip, arms folded on top of the ledge, chin propped on his folded hands as he watched Clint with a canary smile. 

Clint couldn’t help but stare. The man was as beautiful as he was deadly. Broken but still whole. Tragic yet every bit a miracle.

“You coming?” Bucky tipped his head, nestling his cheek down against his hands, the movement causing his hair to fall artfully across his eyes. Though Clint couldn't see anything beyond the lip of the parapet, there was just enough push and pull at the shoulders of Bucky’s coat to make Clint think that he was rocking his hips, as if moving in time to music only he could hear. If it wasn’t coming from a ninety-eight year old, world class assassin, Clint would have called the entire act coquettish -  _ Yes Kate. I do occasionally read _ \- and it had his blood running hotter than it had any right to. 

Clint took a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his mouth, and jogged back over. Just as he went to vault over, the gravity of Bucky’s earlier answer finally settled in. 

“Wait. All that time?”

“Yeah…” Bucky drug the word out, obviously u nsure of what had gotten into Clint.

“That’s been over a week.”

“Yeah?”

“You mean, I could have had all of this,” Clint flapped his free hand a bit frantically, gesturing through the space between them, “for a week?!?!”

When Bucky didn’t respond, Clint speared a figure into his chest, “Why didn’t you say anything!”

“I think we’ve already talked about this.” Bucky’s tone was droll.

“Yeah. I’m a moron. Got it. But you never  **_did_ ** anything about it, either. Baiting me doesn’t count.” Bucky’s eyes shifted away, down and to the left, breaking the contact for the briefest of moments. Ha! Score one for Hawkeye.

Clint’s moment of triumph was all too brief, “I didn’t trust that you wanted me. I knew that you  _ wanted _ me, but…” he broke off with a shrug. 

Unfortunately Clint knew exactly what he meant. It was one thing to have someone want you for the moment of pleasure you could offer. It was something else entirely for them to want you for you. “You had to have some idea?”

Bucky snorted again, confidence eeking back into his voice. “Well. Yeah, but by then, never could quite get the timing right.”

Clint’s mind whirled over the mirrand of missed opportunities. “When I got home from jail? That night? In bed?” His voice broke a little on the last work, but he hoped it wasn’t enough to notice.

Bucky had the good grace to look sheepish, “I was still wound a bit tight over almost losing you. Didn’t trust myself.”

“The couch? After you worked on your arm.”

“Wasn’t brave enough yet to try.”

“The mistletoe…?”

“I thought you had a damned concussion, Barton; I do have some standards.” Bucky just shook his head, mouth curving back into a smile.

“Fine then. Last night, after the party?”

“You seemed sad…”

“That’s it? Sad?!? And you didn’t think you could make me happy?”

Bucky just shrugged, “Sad can be enough. Thought I was causing it.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong, but Clint didn’t want to press. Now wasn’t the time, and for once he was being to believe that there might actually be a later. “And the bathroom, today?”

“That one was all you. I had made up my mind, and then you rabbited before I had a chance.”

Clint felt like a fucking moron, but apparently they both were. He could live with that.

“Okay.”

Bucky cocked an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Yup.” Clint pressed his forehead against Bucky’s. “Yesterday doesn’t matter. What happened before.. meh - “ Clint shrugged a shoulder without breaking the contact, “Doesn’t matter either. All that matters is what happens now-” Clint pressed a fleeting kiss to Bucky’s lips. “Happens later tonight-” He traced the bow of Bucky’s bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. “Happens tomorrow -” He nipped lightly at Bucky’s ear. “Happens every day after.” He traced the tip of his nose across the shell of Bucky’s ear.

Clint couldn’t stop the grin when he felt Bucky shudder, his hands, both metal and flesh, grabbing tight to Clint’s hips.

“Deal.”

“Good. Then let’s go home.”

Bucky chuffed a small laugh, turning his head to hide his face against Clint’s check. “I thought you would never ask.”

Bucky was marking his way down Clint’s neck by the time they staggered across the first of the landings. 

When they clammered onto the second Bucky’s coat had been discarded and somehow Clint had lost a shoe.

Just one more set of stairs to go and then they would be back at the window, indoors, and onto whatever followed after. 

Clint was stumbling down the stairs backwards to give Bucky the room necessary to fumble as his belt . It was a terrible idea, but so,  _ so  _ worth it. With three steps to go, the buckle came free and Bucky gave a sharp yank, sending the leather hissing across the denim and flaring out the length with a flourish. 

Without the benefit of the support, Clint’s jeans slid lower across his hips, tangling the hem of the leg still sorting a shoe to against his heel as he went to step back.

“You’ve got to wait. We are almost -”

The words cut off with a shriek as Clint misjudged the distance to the next rung and stepped down hard into open air. Bucky’s hands shot out- flesh dropping the belt to fist onto Clint’s dress shirt and metal to the railing for support. The sound of prosthetic against steel rang louder than a church bell in the silent Christmas night, reverberating out into the dark.

Clint couldn’t help it, he started laughing. They were already making enough noise to wake the whole damn neighborhood, what did it matter. Bucky’s face pulled into an answering grin. It was beyond ridiculous, but it felt right.

It lasted up until the moment that the Clint felt the fabric of his shirt, already older than dirt and missing buttons from today’s various degrees of manhandling, give way. 

Clint pinwheeled his arms, desperately trying to grab onto something, but all he met was empty air. It wasn’t that long of a drop - he had already been halfway there from the first time Bucky had saved him - so nothing could really be that damaged except his ego… and the small trio of plants Kate had placed out on the ledge. The force of body weight to steel had sent them off over the edge to shatter in a terracotta hailstorm on the asphalt below. 

As Clint sat there, staring up at a riotously laughing Bucky, he assessed the damage. The shirt was a gonner, missing all but its top button now and one of the sleeves had split at the shoulder seam from the fall. The knee of his jeans had met a similar fate, and unless he was mistaken, it was only his boxers separating his ass from frozen steel. He gave a little test wiggle and yup, now he could feel the folded chunk of denim bunched beneath his thigh. Other than that, he wasn’t any worse for the wear. Only thing battered beyond his wardrobe was his pride. 

Bucky held out a hand to help him back up, still smiling broad and bright. 

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up.” Clint chided, but there there was no heat to it beyond the flush in his own cheeks. 

Bucky leaned forward, towering over Clint where he was positioned on the stairs. His eyes went heavy, half-lidded, and he crooked a finger at Clint -  _ come here _ .

Helpless to say no, Clint did as instructed and rose to his feet. Bucky hopped down a single stair, ceding some of the height, making them practically equal. He pressed the flat of both hands against Clint’s chest, running them up and under the ruined shirt to lift it over and off of Clint’s shoulders, letting it catch against Clint’s elbows, binding his arms to his back. 

“If you wanted to lose the shirt, all you had to  do was ask.” 

“I think I’m a bit further ahead than that.” Clint almost didn’t recognize his own voice.

“You do have a point.” Bucky let go of Clint’s shirt and reached up behind his neck to grab the collar of his own long-sleeve tee with his right hand. He tugged slowly, revealing a slim inch of muscled skin. 

A light flicked on in a window across the street.

He tipped his head forward, looking up at Clint through his lashes as he brought the shirt another inch higher. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Bucky raised his left hand, trailing metal fingertips along the edge of his jeans, light playing a contrast between silver and skin. Bucky shifted his weight just enough to cause a ripple across the lines of muscle as clever fingers slipped the top button on his jeans free. 

Just as Clint stepped forward, intent on taking him up on the invitation, a window slammed open.

Clint knew that noise. Ohh shit. “Ohhh shit.”

Bucky’s eyes furrowed in confusion or the briefest of moments, before his face crumbled as he tried to contain the laughter as the tirade started up from across the street. 

“Clint Barton! Is that you? I know that’s you.”

Bucky dropped the shirt, bringing both hands to his mouth, snickering into his palms, trying to muffle the noise. Where he was still perched on the step, he would be completely obscured from sight, but there was no way that anyone was going to miss Clint, illuminated as he was by his own window.

He hung his head, “Yeah. It’s me. Sorry Mrs. Peters!”

Clint turned quickly, hoping that she hadn’t yet noticed the state of his pants, and sure enough, there she was, hanging half out her open window, clutching a neon pink robe tightly closed against her throat. 

Clint tried to bring a hand up to wave a greeting, but that was a terrible, horrible mistake. He had completely forgotten about the state of his shirt. As he tried to raise his arm, the already torn shoulder seam rent the rest of the way, the sound echoing impossibly loud, because of course, this was Clint’s life. To make matters worse, the sleeve s lid down to pool drunkenly at his elbow, making it more than obvious the state he was in.

“And don’t think I don’t see you back there either!” She pointed a finger in Bucky’s general direction and it was Clint’s turn to laugh. Bucky went silent, standing a little straighter, partially hidden as he was.

“Good evening, ma’am”, Bucky called out over Clint’s shoulder. 

Mrs. Peters snorted, loudly. “Ma’am, my ass. Step out where I can see you. Think I deserve to know what sort of ruffian is out all hours causing all manner of mischief with the likes of Clint Barton.”

Bucky did as requested and stepped down off of the step. Intentional or otherwise, he trod against Clint’s one remaining pants leg. The denim had already been only precariously balanced, held up by force of will alone, and the weight was just enough to send the whole mess sliding down and off his hips. Clint flailed out, trying to halt the process before they ended up pooled around his ankles, but had the misfortune of choosing the still firmly tethered arm for the rescue mission. 

The pants hit the ground and Clint stumbled forward, thrown off balance by his own abruptly halted motion. He would have gone crashing down - again - if it wasn’t for Bucky’s intervention. 

There was silence from across the street. That was a bad sign.

Clint looked up, smiling sheepishly to meet Mrs. Peter’s flinty, calculating eyes. She raised one drawn on brow, and though it had to be a trick of the light, it looked like she smiled. 

“Handsome boy like yourself thinking I wouldn’t spot him skulking about. Thinkin’ I was born yesterday.” She addressed Bucky, completely skimming over Clint’s pathetic state of undress. “If you boys are gonna be carrying on like that, at least have the decency to keep it down. Some of us are trying to get some sleep.”

Before Clint could reply, Bucky beat him to it, “Yes ma’am. Won’t happen again.”  _ Kiss ass _ . 

Mrs. Peters just snorted, wriggling herself back inside. “See that it doesn’t. Best remember these walls are thin. I don’t right care what you get up to the rest of the night, so long as you do it all quiet like.” She reached up, as if to close her window, but halted just before capitulating the movement, catching Bucky’s eye. “Keep him in one piece. The boy has a hard enough time managing on his own without over exerting himself all over the likes of you.”

Bucky actually sputtered. This was the real Christmas miracle; the Winter Soldier finally meeting his match in a ninety-year-old woman. 

To be fair, it was probably was the first time he had ever had ever been told by the likes of anyone in his current age bracket go have enthusiastic, no doubt athletic sex, with another man, but only so long as he did so quietly. Clint decided to let it slide; just this once. In the spirit of the season.

Clint spoke up to save Bucky from having to answer. “Will do Mrs. Peters! You have a Merry Christmas! I’m going to!”

Clint could see her shaking her head, muttering something about what type of Christmas it actually was under her breath as she shut the window. As soon as her light went the rest of the way out, he quickly disentangled himself from the tattered overshirt and spun back to Bucky, fully intending on picking right back up where they had left off.

Bucky was just staring at him. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

Clint grabbed Bucky’s hand for balance as he toed off his one remaining shoe and stepped from the ruin disaster of his pants. “Yup.”

“And why exactly did you do that?”

“Because it  _ is _ a Merry Christmas.” Clint reached behind himself, to lever open the window. He could hear Lucky scramble his way down the stairs, barking happily. “What was I supposed to say to her?” 

“Anything but fucking that!”

Clint reached up, softly brushing a chunk of hair from Bucky’s eyes. “You knew what you were getting into.”

“Yeah. I did… but it doesn’t hurt to have a little dignity, Barton.”

Clint just smiled, leaning in to place a smacking kiss against Bucky’s mouth. Dignity? He was standing on a fire escape in the middle of winter damn near half naked. Who needs dignity? 

Clint brushed their noses together and tugged, tumbling them backwards through the window, spilling across Clint’s living room floor in a tangle of limbs at the base of the tree, laughing all the way. 

The glow of the fairy lights on the tree colored the room in silvers and reds and greens as if painted in a dream. The makeshift stockings hung with care hinted at family and bonds that ran deeper than blood. The weapons and other sundry instruments of war spoke of a dangerous life, but the happy barkings of a big yellow dog and the laughter of grown men whispered that there was so much more. 

As important as the rest of it was, all the little things so long taken for granted, it was the man in his arms that held the most worth, that told Clint he was finally home. 

Merry Christmas was perfectly fitting. It should be a Merry Christmas to all, because for Clint, it was, after all, a very good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank everyone who has given this a chance for sticking through me until the end. I know it took me a little bit longer than the twelves days, but, promise, I'll do better next time. ;-) 
> 
> Over the next few days, I'm going to go back over the early chapters where I was still fumbling around in the dark and clean up some of the typos and various sundry other areas that were blatantly overlooked before the guiding light that was [Khel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Khel/pseuds/Khel) took up the herculean task of keeping me on the right path, so an extra kudos out to you that have been with me from the beginning.
> 
> This never would have been finished out if it wasn't for all the wonderfully kind words - both here and on Tumblr. I'm here to stay, if you guys will have me. Thank you all again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> If you have made it this far, you might as well follow me down the rabbit hole on tumblr: [Phou-ka](http://phou-ka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> A heaping, overflowing truck load of thanks is owed to [Khel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Khel/pseuds/Khel) for stepping in to beta this one for me. This would have never made it out if it wasn't for her help! I owe yah one.


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